All the World's a Stage
by Adamantwrites
Summary: In New Orleans on family business, a young Adam Cartwright meets up with his friend, Edwin Booth, who is performing. The reunion is marred when a member of Booth's acting troupe is murdered and Adam feels it is up to him to prove his innocence while a New Orleans detective attempts to prove his guilt.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. All original plots and OC's are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.**

A few months ago, I read _My Thoughts_ _Be Bloody_ by Nora Titone, a well-researched biography of both Edwin and John Wilkes Booth detailing their rivalry. All that I've written in this story about the Booth family is based on information found in that book and on the web—from legitimate sources, and I've taken practically no liberties—just

a few-and avoided hyperbole. The OC's are based on actual characters in Edwin Booth's life.

Edwin Booth did have an affair with an older actress, Laura Keene, while they toured together but his drinking binges ended it. (She is known best as the actress who was starring in the play that Lincoln was watching when he was shot and she held his bleeding head while she sat on the floor.)

Edwin Booth did have the "glorious clap," as he referred to it and his first wife died from complications of the disease, having caught it from him. At the time, her illness wasn't diagnosed as she had no obvious symptoms—women often do not.

Edwin Booth also has a good friend, Adam Badeau, who was well-known in his own right as an author and a diplomat. He helped Booth to enter society and promoted him as an actor; they wrote each other when apart. Badeau served on staff for Ulysses S. Grant during the Civil War and retired from the military with the brevet rank of a Brigadier General. And although not discussed at the time, it was well-known that Badeau was a homosexual although there is no hint that his and Booth's relationship was anything other than just that of good friends.

 **All the World's a Stage**

 **Act I: A Cast of Characters**

The dark-haired young man winds his way through the back stage crew, apologizing for his clumsiness as he bumps into the props and stagehands, excusing himself as he makes his way until he reaches the staging area where the actors review their marks and feint strikes with stage foils-the balls on the ends imperceptible to a distant audience. One actor portraying Mercutio states, "Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives…" and the handsome interloper, who can't help but grin at the familiar dialogue, surmises the other actor is Tybalt. Edwin Booth leans against the wall in his tunic and tights and watches while he absentmindedly twirls another stage foil, waiting for Romeo's cue to come between the other two actors. Adam Cartwright, who feels he has stumbled into a foreign world, wonders about the experience of saying onstage to a theater full of people who are hanging on your every word, "Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up." Even though the audience already knows what horrendous result Romeo's intervention will bring about, they still hold their breath, anticipating what is to come. Viewing Shakespeare in the day is similar to watching all the great Greek tragedies eons ago—the audience is well familiar with the plots but it does not decrease the effect of the resulting anguish; the "catharsis" or "purgation" of emotions is achieved.

Adam stands quietly, waiting until the proper time but Booth sees him first and the two men exchange warms smiles of recognition. Edwin practically leaps across the space to grasp Adam by the shoulders.

"Adam! How wonderful to see you! What in the world are you doing in New Orleans?"

"Hello, Ned! I'm here on business—well, Ponderosa business. I'll explain it later—not too interesting. I didn't mean to interrupt a rehearsal but when I read in the paper about you opening tonight, saw the playbills posted all over town, well, I had to stop by and see you."

Edwin Booth, a handsome actor, only two years younger than the dark-haired man standing before him, surveys his friend's face with a critical eye.

"You look well, Ad. How is your father? Well, I hope."

"Yes, he's well. I'll tell him you asked after him; he'll be pleased."

"You know, Ad, you would make a perfect Tybalt; you have the dark looks required of the villain—like a big, sleek cat. And that voice! I swear, Ad, all the females in the audience would be swooning in orgasmic delight when you intoned your lines!"

Adam laughs. Yes, Ned still owns the naughty humor they both shared when they first met and became friends.

"Ned!" a man holding a script calls out. "Your cue! Get out here!"

"Go!" Adam says, giving his friend a gentle push.

But even as he walks away, Edwin is looking at his friend and gesticulating. "You must stay, Ad. Don't leave. I have plans for you. Wait here. I have to go play Romeo. God, I detest this role! Romeo is a milksop—an ineffectual, simpering, puling whey-face, lacking any vestige of masculinity! Ah, how love castrates a man!"

Adam laughs at his friend's comments and as he watches, Edwin Booth changes his posture, the way he holds himself and with arms outstretched as if attempting to enjoin the two characters of Tybalt and Mercutio into an embrace, begins his lines. Adam notices Edwin's voice has changed as well; it now has a tenderness—a persuasive tone.

"Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up."

"Come sir, your passado." The two actors, Mercutio and Tybalt, begin to clash foils and Adam observes they're talented at the art of fencing; both having the lightness of foot and elegance required for the art. They move about the stage freely, almost as if they're dancing.

Then Romeo, worried and weary, pleads with his friend, Benvolio, standing on the sidelines, "Draw, Benvolio! Beat down their weapons! Gentlemen, for…."

Mercutio stops parrying and thrusting-angry. "Damn it all, Ned, stop blocking me! The audience is to see me stabbed and my death scene—remember? But if you keep missing your mark…"

"The hell you say! I know where my mark is but with your awkward flailing and…

"Flailing! Now you listen, you bastard upstart, you pretender to your father's throne, you…"

"How dare you?" Ned pulls out his foil and pops the ball off the end. He takes a fencing stance. "En garde, you cur! I'll run your liver through!"

"That's enough!" A tall, thin man, older and looking extremely put-upon and holding a script, steps between them. "I've had just about all that I can take. This evening's performance had best come off without a hitch or I'll skewer both of you just as the critics will me! I know you are the headliner, Ned, but really—and you…"

"Booth here always steps in front of me, blocks me from the audience and I won't have it! The people may think the world of him only because of his father but I am not impressed nor humbled in the least! I should have my name equal to his—not below it."

Edwin turns to Adam, slyly smiling and winks. He turns back to the tall man, obviously the director, who is attempting to keep peace. "I will make sure that I step between them, not in front of them. But why he thinks anyone would prefer to watch him over me…"

Mercutio's arm shoots out to grab Edwin by his shirt front but the tall man intervenes by putting out his arms, keeping the actors apart. The rest of the actors on the stage watch with interest; they know that Edwin Booth is the main draw due to his famous father and has his name printed on the posters almost as large as the title of the play. Every night, in every city in which he performs, Booth receives flowers in his dressing room along with notes of undying love and devotion and many a young, besotted girl has begged to be deflowered by the young actor with the large, deep, sad eyes. And many young men also worshipped at the altar of handsome Edwin Booth sending small tokens of their admiration of his elegant beauty and abundant talent.

"That's it!" The tall man throws up his arms but hasn't let go of the script. "If you two keep this bickering up I'll replace both of you with understudies. Now, as they say in pugilistic circles, go to your separate corners. All of you-." He sweeps his arm encompassing everyone lounging against the walls enjoying the drama, "Get back to work or...I don't give a damn! Just no one ask me any questions! My head is pounding." He starts to walk away but turns on his heel and shakes a threatening finger at Romeo and Mercutio. "I meant what I said. And if I replace you—no pay."

"If you replace me," Edwin responds, "no play!"

The actors move off the stage, all discussing the unexpected, and far more interesting performance they had just viewed. Ned walks toward Adam, his eyes betraying his intentional mischief. Adam smiles in response.

"What was that all about? You really were blocking him from view, you know."

"Of course, I know. He'll give a better performance tonight for it. The tension between having to play my good friend and detesting me at the same time will produce just the right amount of ambiguity. But now, Ad, I have a marvelous idea! How would you like to be a super?" Ned throws an arm around his friend's broad shoulders. They are of the same height but Ned can feel the strongly muscled upper arms under his friend's lightweight wool suit. He can appreciate Adam's dark looks, his swarthy complexion and rich, deep voice as well as his beauty—a far different beauty than he himself possesses.

"A super? What the hell is that? And why would I want to be one?" And Adam laughs—his friend has brought about his good humor which he had lost in the meeting with lawyers earlier that day.

"Come with me…" Ned drops his arm and beckons for Adam to follow him, hurrying ahead through the labyrinthine corridors that wound through the back of every theater. They step gingerly through the trappings and appurtenances that litter the backstage area and they come upon a small room.

"Meg, my love!" Ned cries. A woman hunches over lengths of brocade fabric, her needle stabbing at a seam, stitching it together. Rack upon rack of costumes stand about her and there are spools of multi-colored thread, scissors, thimbles and such on a table along with rolls of lace. An open steamer trunk stands in a corner filled with more costumes. She looks up at the two men, her glasses perched on her nose, her hair more grey than brown. "This is my friend, Adam Cartwright."

"Another actor, I suppose." Meg sizes up the man. He's stockier than the other actors in the troupe but not portly as Juliet's father or Friar Lawrence are; he's just well-muscled but is an intimidating size and height.

"He's going to be a super in the group scenes, Meg. Can you fit him for tonight's opening? He's to be a Capulet—or a Montague. A Capulet, I should think—give him those colors. That way he can both dance at the ball and brawl in the street."

"Whoa! Wait a minute." Adam raises a hand as if that will put an end to everything. "I'm confused here. What's a super? And what does a super do and, again, why would I even want to be one?"

"A supernumerary! An extra person in the play. We're always looking for people to fill the background—it's hard to have a crowd scene without a crowd. All you have to do is walk on with the other supes…"

"No." Adam puts his hands out in protest. "I just want to see the play—I'll buy a ticket with everyone else."

"But, Ad, you can have one of the best seats in the house! In Shakespeare's time, the most expensive seats were on the stage! C'mon, Adam! It pays a dollar a night."

"But I'm no actor."

Meg chuckles. "Neither are many of the people in this play—at least according to past reviews."

"Say you will do it, Ad! And then after, we'll go out and get roaring drunk to celebrate your acting debut!"

"No…I don't think I want…"

Ned turns to Meg. "The gentleman doth protest too much, methinks." He implores Adam again. "You'll be helping out, Ad."

Adam is frustrated; part of him wants to perform, to fulfill his curiosity about being on stage but he also knows that he is being manipulated through his vanity and friendship with Edwin Booth. He decides. "All right. But just tonight for the opening and you can stick your dollar…." Meg looks up at him expectantly. "….back in your wallet."

Ned claps him on the back and they both grin. "Meg, can you fit him?"

"Stay a few minutes while I measure you," she says to Adam as she puts aside the heavy dress she's sewing, grabbing up a tape to measure him. "I have some vests and such that will hopefully fit you; I don't have time to let out or take in any other costumes, thanks to you, Ned. Polly is thicker in the middle and bustier than Minerva. Make my life easier and keep the same leading lady for a while, would you? Not every woman you bed needs to play your leading lady."

"Why, Meg," Ned says, taking her arms and giving her a turn about the room, "they do if I'm going to bed them-that's the way of the world. And you, Meg, my love, how would you like to play Juliet to my Romeo?" Ned winks lasciviously. She pulls away her hand and gives him a playful slap but she smiles. "You know you're the only woman for me, Meg, my one true love."

Adam enjoys the badinage and Ned steals a kiss from the wardrobe mistress who enjoys the attention of the likeable young man. She has often stood in the wings and watched Edwin Booth perform; he takes her breath away with his ability to become the characters he portrays. He can transport an audience to another place, another time.

Edwin and Adam turn around suddenly and Meg puts a hand to her chest; down the corridor, a woman's scream pierces the air—not just one scream but shriek after shriek. Adam and Ned head for the screams but Meg sighs and then picks up the brocade dress she had put aside, taking up her needle again. She's sure it's nothing serious and continues with her work; actors are so histrionic.

Ned pushes his way through those already drawn by the screams and enters the room, Adam pushing forward behind him. Standing in the dingy, little dressing room is one of the loveliest young women Adam has ever seen. Her hair is lush and shiny black, her features classically perfect and her figure is just beginning to fill out to its womanly promise; she is 17 at the most.

"For God's sake, Minerva!" Ned says as he stands in the room. The actors and stage hands who were curious about the noise fill the doorway.

"There!" she says, "That!" angrily pointing, stabbing at the air. They look, having to move further inside and there on the dressing table backed by a huge mirror, there among the pots of stage makeup, brushes and an abandoned hairpiece of black curls is a huge dead rat. "She did it! I know she did it! That jealous bitch! I'll kill her!"

"Now, Minerva," Ned says, holding onto her, "there's no proof that Polly did this—rats have been seen in the building before and it may have just chosen this day to die on the altar of your beauty."

"Are you sure it's not just another hair piece?" a female voice asks with a tinge of sarcasm.

Adam turns and an attractive woman in her early 30's stands in the doorway wearing a long Oriental, tasseled shawl over her layers of Bohemian clothing. She smiles knowingly, her arms crossed.

"You did it!" Minerva snarls, attempting to reach the older woman. "I'll scratch your eyes out, I'll poison you, slice up that face! Just because I'm playing Juliet, you can't bear it! You're a jealous whore! A no-talented…"

Polly snaps to an aggressive posture. "The pot calls the kettle black! Your only talent is falling on your back and I hear you don't even do that well! I had nothing to do with the rat but it does seem apropos—a rat for a rat! Better a dead whore for a rat but the law frowns on that. Or should the rat have been tossed on Ned's dressing table?"

"Polly," Edwin says, "did you do this?"

"Please!" Polly sniffs. "Do you think I'd stoop to something so—base, so revolting? My hands are clean and pure." She holds up lovely elegant hands, smiles and exits, calling behind her, "Give a good performance tonight, Minerva, my dear…and I mean on stage. Not on the mattress."

The on-lookers break away, talking among themselves, going back to their lives and only Adam Cartwright remains behind observing the two people left in the room. He decides that actors enjoy creating scenes, making grand entrances and exits—it must be in the blood.

"Now, Minerva, my sweet, relax and don't worry. I'll tell Sully to dispose of…the creature." He holds the girl's face gently and she softens under his touch. "You have your premier tonight—your first starring role, my sweet Juliet." He kisses her and Adam looks away, a smile playing about his lips. "Go rest in my dressing room, Minerva—settle those lines in your gloriously beautiful face."

"Yes, thank you, Ned. It's good that Juliet and her mother are on the outs—otherwise I don't think I could be civil to Polly—dialogue or not. I would have to spit on her." Minerva notices the dark-haired, beautiful man standing next to Edwin. "And who is this?

"Oh, this is a friend of mine—Adam Cartwright." Adam tips his hat. "Adam, Miss Minerva Baudelaire." Minerva puts out one arm, her fingers elegantly posed, and Adam takes them to his lips.

"My pleasure, Miss Baudelaire. I wish we had met under less disturbing conditions." He releases her smooth, white hand and she bridles under his attention, rewarding him with a dazzling smile that only enhances her loveliness. She considers this man's unusual yet attractive features—the light hazel-brown eyes, the high cheekbones and the lush, full lips. He continues to smile and she feels like a foolish girl with her first crush; more than anything else, she wants his attention.

"With that voice and your looks, I assume you are an actor, Mr. Cartwright?"

"No. In fact I'm a rancher from out west."

"But tonight," Ned says, putting one hand on Adam's shoulder, "He is an actor. I've convinced him to be a super—on the Capulet side."

"How wonderful! My side of the families." Minerva says, clapping her hands in delight. "Then we will meet again on stage. Perhaps we can 'bump' into each other during the ballroom scene."

"It would be my pleasure." Adam tips his hat again as Minerva leaves the small room in almost a dance holding up her skirt with one hand—her attempt to have this man notice her small feet, narrow ankles and lithe figure.

"Minerva Baudelaire, huh?" Adam says watching her go. She turns back once and smiles again and then goes on to Ned's dressing room.

"Minnie Bodine," Ned replies.

"What?" Adam laughs.

"Her name is Minnie Bodine and she's been with the troupe since she was 14 and ran away from home. First she helped with costumes and then was taken on as an understudy and now she has a starring role—even though she lacks any depth of talent. But she'll learn as I did."

"Yes, but you learned from the best—your father."

"Yes, and now I am the best and she will learn from me. I have taught her quite a bit all ready." Edwin Booth grins. "Come, Adam. Let's get you fitted for your appearance tonight."

"Ned, I'm not sure…"

"Think of the experience, Adam! You will be able to tell your grandchildren that you once appeared onstage with the great Edwin Booth! Now shall we go?"

~ 0 ~

Adam had nervously followed the other actors in the scenes and milled about awkwardly. Taggert had pulled him aside after the opening scene where he entered as a member of Prince Escalus' group, and hissed at him to stay relatively still while on stage except for the times of action, and even then to stay in the background. "The audience's eyes always go to who's talking as it should, but if you shift from foot to foot or rub your ear or scratch nose or such, well, the audience will look to you; they always look to action so stay still." Adam swore he would and made it a point to just stand quietly in the background—and sweat. He stood so still he could feel the beads running down his chest and the sides of his face.

Although Adam wasn't particularly modest, wearing the pantaloons that exposed a great length of his stockinged legs was intimidating—and embarrassing as the fabric became damp and darker near the crotch, the more he sweat. Considering his nervousness, Adam was relieved that with the glare of the limelight, the audience couldn't be as clearly seen as he had believed they would be and that was a comfort. But when the performance was over and he quickly stripped out of costume and placed it where the other supernumeraries put theirs to be steamed and brushed for the next performance. And once he dressed, he waited outside Edwin Booth's dressing room where "Romeo" was holding court with adoring female fans as well as a wealthy businessman who felt he could make a fortune by backing the young genius, for that's what Booth was.

Adam idles, his legs crossed at the ankles as he leans against the wall, waiting for Edwin so they can go out to dinner and then carousing as they had in Boston after Edwin's debut with his father in _Richard III_ so long ago. He isn't paying particular attention to the others who are backstage, either part of the crew, the troupe or one fortunate enough to gain entrance to the private quarters of the insular world of actors. He feels the brush of a delicate hand against his nether region and snapping to, sees Minerva Baudelaire next to him. She moves closer until her skirts are crushed against his leg, her hand lightly teasing his thigh.

"What did you think of my performance, Mr. Cartwright?" She gazes up at him; for one so young, she seems most practiced in the art of seduction. But then perhaps it's a role she assumed. It seemed to Adam that everyone played a part in life, that all people had different roles at different times and different places. And at that moment, Minerva played the part of a siren.

So Adam considers his response to Minerva. After all, he had discussed the young Minnie Bodine at great length with Ned earlier that day.

 _"_ _So," Ned says, "Minnie showed up at 14—ran away from home after seeing me onstage and she followed me around like a puppy—a beautiful puppy who was willing to roll over and show what she has to offer-but still so young! She was fresh and lovely—and just waiting and willing to be plucked."_

 _"_ _She's lovely still." Adam says, raising his brows in appreciation. He sips from the silver flask engraved with J.B.B.—Junius Brutus Booth, Adam assumes, an inherited piece from Edwin's father-and then passes it back to Edwin._

 _"_ _At first she helped about the place, helped Meg, the wardrobe mistress and learned the art of stage make-up—it is rather grotesque up close and requires artistic knowledge of how to make one's cheekbones look so sharp as to cut the lover's flesh during a kiss—and she learned acting. Soon she was an understudy and somewhere along the line, was rid of the burden of her virginity—not by me, Adam—I assure you! My guess, is Taggert, the director. It is he who does the hiring of minor performers and such, and it is he who has the tastes of a satyr. Nevertheless, 'Minnie Bodine' would be laughable on a marquee so she chose 'Minerva Baudelaire.' A bit pretentious but as you saw, she does have a flair for the dramatic—actually, she's quite wearisome. A person can only take so much of it."_

 _"_ _What about Polly? Why does she hate Minerva so much-and I'm assuming it's reciprocal?"_

 _"_ _Ah, Polly! Polly and I toured together and became lovers—she taught me many things in two years and improved my education in the sensual aspects of life. Nothing like an older, experienced woman, Ad, trust me. But she's too old to play Juliet anymore—despite makeup layered on with a palette knife. So, Minnie starts tonight as Juliet and Polly as her mother. I reminded Polly…" Edwin passed the flask back to Adam, "that Lady Capulet is barely 14 years older than her daughter but there is no pleasing women! And that—in a nutshell—is the cause of the hostilities. Ah, 'I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space—were it not that I have bad dreams.' Hamlet—my father's most famous role."_

 _"_ _Is it true, what Meg said about your leading ladies?"_

 _Edwin takes back the flask. "I am ashamed to say that yes, it is. But should you desire 'Juliet', Adam, well, indulge yourself. Besides, you're two years older than I and I'm sure you're more experienced. You can probably teach our darling Minnie a thing or two during your stay and I shall be the one to benefit from it. And how long can you stay?" Edwin takes a long sip. "You have made this miserable place so much better."_

 _"_ _Ned, I think that's enough to drink. You have your performance tonight—in just a few hours actually, and…" Adam leans forward, his arm outstretched to retrieve the flask while Edwin makes a dismissive motion._

 _"_ _No need to worry, Ad, I am not a drunk like my father."_

 _At least not yet, Adam thinks but leaves unsaid. He sits back and refuses the flask when Edwin again proffers it; Edwin tucks it back into his inside jacket pocket._

 _"_ _I'll be here only a few more days—the issues should be resolved quickly unless there's another obstruction. My brother Joe's been left a small inheritance by a distant relative of his mother's. I came to settle the matter, submit proof of his birth, sign the necessary papers and take home the draft from the estate."_

 _"_ _Is he with you? Your brother, that is?"_

 _"_ _No—he's only 12."_

 _"_ _Ah, puts me in mind of my own brothers and sisters—I miss them all, especially the ones who died in childhood. But I support my whole family, you know. Now that my father has passed, my mother has no one else and she wants to keep John at home as long as she can but he's itching to act—and June, well, he's trying to make a fortune in California."_

 _"_ _Trying? Not succeeding?"_

 _"_ _Not in the least. Apparently, despite the stories told, gold nuggets aren't lying in the open just waiting to be picked up. But things aren't all so dire. Now, let me give you something to drink to!" Edwin pulls out the silver flask again. "My parents married the year my father died—once that conniving Delannoy bitch finally divorced him." He takes a long swallow, sighing afterwards. "Here, Ad, you must drink to my parents' marriage."_

 _Grinning, Adam takes the flask and sips; the whiskey is already burning through his veins and addling his thinking. "To your parents' marriage."_

 _"_ _He loved my mother, you know. He really did, and would've married her before June was born if he had only been free."_

 _Adam watches, wondering if he should intervene again but Edwin replaces the stopper and placed it back in his jacket._

 _"_ _I'm sure he did."_

 _"_ _Yes, he did. Now, enough of this! We must make plans for this evening after the show! No women for me tonight—especially not Minnie! I don't think I can bear hearing her retell and retell the rat story which will alter and grow with each version."_

Those words uttered earlier urged Adam to caution in dealing with Minnie.

"You were magnificent, Minerva. Wonderful. I have never seen Juliet played so well—you showed her maturity when faced in an untenable situation and made her actions convincing. I'm not a critic, of course—but then no one could possibly criticize you."

"Oh, you're far too kind." Minerva looks at the crowds of people who are jammed in Edwin's dressing room, many standing outside bearing bouquets of flowers, unable to yet get inside. Her face takes on a look of annoyance under her thick make-up which only exaggerates the small lines about her frowning mouth and eyes. "Flowers for him. I should be receiving more than…this!" She holds up the small bouquet of mixed flowers she had received at curtain call and then tosses them over her shoulder. "If you're waiting for Ned, it will take him a while to fight his way out from the fawning crowd." She fingers the lapel of Adam's suit, noticing the summer-weight of the fabric—perfect for the spring in New Orleans but cool as it was outside, the theater was overly-warm from all the people, the lights and her acting efforts. "Why don't you come with me to my dressing room? You can protect me should there be anything more threatening than a dead rat in there. And we can lock the door…"

But Adam doesn't have to think of a way to politely decline because a young man comes smiling down the hall followed by another, both well-dressed and bearing huge bouquets of multi-colored flowers. Adam surmises that each bouquet must have cost at least five dollars and they weren't bought from any corner street vendor selling poesy's or wilted, spotted gardenias.

"Miss Baudelaire," the first suitor says, "I am humbled to be in the presence of such a beautiful and talented actress. Please accept my small offering." He hands her the massive bouquet and Minerva smiles and thanks him with downcast eyes, putting them in the crook of her arm as she would hold a child. Then she looks expectantly at the other young man who wi flushed with emotion. Adam suppresses a smile at the man's obvious infatuation with the young actress.

"Oh, please, Miss Baudelaire," he says flushed with the gravitas of meeting an actress and a young, beautiful one at that. "Won't you accept these from me?"

"I should be delighted." Minerva takes the second bouquet as well. "Won't you gentlemen accompany me to my dressing room?" The men agree and Adam hears a few more people coming down the back stage corridor calling out, some holding flowers, some looking like newspaper reporters seeking a word or two for their copy, "Miss Baudelaire! Miss Baudelaire!"

"Won't you excuse me, Mr. Cartwright?" Minerva says, giving Adam a coquettish look.

Adam makes a slight bow and motions for her to go ahead without him and Minnie Bodine quickly finds herself the center of much-desired attention. As far as deserving—well, Adam has doubts about that but beauty takes one a long way in the superficial world; he knew that for certain

~ 0 ~

The two friends sit in a seedy bar in a disreputable part of New Orleans—the waterfront-a place where a naïve man could easily be shanghaied, rolled by a prostitute and her cohorts or stabbed through the gut with a buck knife for no particular reason. The sailors drinking in the dank bar which carries the pungent smell of sour vomit, sweat, cheap perfume and fish, have no idea that the elegant young man in the flowing clothes of a poet, shoulder-length, wavy, dark hair with the sad, dark eyes and the refined nose is a lauded actor or that his friend who looks born to the stylish suit he wears is a contradiction—an educated man given to deep thoughts and moral quandaries who works at physical labor. All that the gaudily-dressed barmaids know about the two customers is that the thinner man likes to lap up the alcohol—questionable as the substance was—and that the other man, the one who observes everything and everyone, is far more in control of himself and his desires.

"Miss" Edwin calls out, raising a graceful hand in a distinctly theatrical manner. "Another bottle of your finest for my friend and me."

"I think you've had enough to drink," Adam says, trying to be gently discouraging. "We should head back to the hotel. Much later and we may not make it back safely." Much to the friends' delight they discover that both are staying at the Maison Dupuy Hotel on Toulouse Street.

"No, no, Ad. I can never have enough to drink—I have discovered that. You see, my brother John inherited my father's looks—handsome and physically powerful. Even June isn't as handsome as John. As for me, I am proud to say I've inherited by father's talent and his trunk of costumes, but I have also inherited my father's lust for the grape—or the barley or whatever will ferment. It's like a disease, you know—one that can't be cured. But then I'm sure you remember from the time you met him—that we first met…" A barmaid comes over to the table and places a bottle down, waits to be paid. "Thank you, my lusty beauty." Edwin makes a dramatic gesture as if on the stage, large and effusive but makes no effort to pay.

"Here," Adam says, standing up to speak to the woman; she has bad teeth and garish makeup—it is as if she too is performing a part and applied the make-up accordingly. He hands her two silver dollars and she smiles showing gaps in her teeth, drops one coin down the front of her dress. "Don't serve us anymore liquor. Understand?" The barmaid smiles and goes about serving others and Adam sits back down.

Adam wonders just how he is going to get Edwin back to the hotel. It won't be easy but maybe Ned will pass out and he can just sling him over his shoulder and carry him until a hack is found or they reach the hotel which is not too far away. But in the meantime he sits and listens indulgently; his friend Edwin is a troubled man.


	2. Chapter 2

**Act II: The Plot Thickens**

"Here you are!"

Adam looks up and Edwin leisurely turns to look at the man standing behind him. "Oh, so you found me. You are not one to give up, are you?"

The man looks angry, his plump face red with controlled anger; to Adam, he looks as if his head will explode and steam pour out like an angry teapot. Adam stands to be introduced properly and also, although it wasn't of conscious design, to intimidate the man with his size and attitude, the way a bear will rise on two legs to instill fear and show its physical superiority.

"Ad, let me introduce you to my manager and nursemaid, Irving Penn.—never Irv—Irving. This fine specimen of a human is Adam Cartwright, a friend whom you have not yet met until this exact moment as he is merely visiting New Orleans on business—totally unrelated to me or the theater."

Adam puts out his hand but Irving just brusquely nods and then begins chastising Edwin. "Because I had business—your business, you sneak out and troll the bars. I've been searching for you for the last two hours and now I find you sodden! Come on. We must get back to the hotel." He places a hand under Edwin's arm and attempts to make him rise. Edwin still sits, passively resisting Irving's efforts. "Well?" Penn says, looking at Adam. "Don't just stand there! Help me to drag him out of here. What kind of friend are you to allow him to get so drunk Don't you know he can't take the stuff?"

"He is a grown man," Adam says. "I don't think it's up to me to dictate what he can do and where he wants to do it."

"We can debate this later," Penn says, "but now, Ned needs to get to bed—to be sober in the morning." Penn heaves up again and Adam moves around to pull up Edwin from the other side.

"Ah, the bum's rush!" Ned said. "I am my father's son after all—and as humiliating as I considered this position to be when my father was forcibly ejected from an establishment, I find it not so much when it happens to me. And do you know why that is, Adam?"

"No." Adam smiles indulgently.

"Because drink takes off the sting of shame—ah, blessed drink. In that manner at least." Edwin, even with the two supporting bodies, stumbles and is unsure of his feet. "But you know what the porter says about drink as a provoker…"

Adam considers the referenced porter must be the character in _Macbeth_ , not a gatekeeper to an actual place they patronize; Penn has no interest.

"He says, much to the audiences' delight who know it to be true, that it provokes nose-painting, sleep and urine."

Adam smiles and finally they are out in the street where a hack waits, the Creole driver leisurely enjoying the cool night and the sea breeze. He has driven the caped gentleman all over New Orleans and stopped at every drinking establishment and had been calculating his fare; he would be able to go home early tonight but since only his bony, shrewish wife waited for him, he might roam the streets longer looking for a fare although this late at night, not many honest folks were out. Best he heads home, he thinks, and if his wife gives him any mouth, he'll slap her and put an end to it.

Few people have paid any notice to the Shakespearean actor and the caped man or the tall, dark-haired man. Few except for the barmaid who takes the practically still-full bottle left on the table and puts it back behind the bar to resell, picks up the glasses and then sees another coin left on the table—whether intentional or not, she doesn't care, just sweeps it up and drops it down her cleavage.

"Wait for me' Ned says as the trio are almost to the hack. "I must pause for a moment. Unhand me, friends."

After exchanging glances, both Adam and Penn release Edwin who thanks them as if they had presented him with an award. He manages to remain on his feet as he stumbles to the side of the building and placing one hand on it to support himself, unbuttons his trousers. Adam turns away as he hears a stream of urine hit the brick wall.

Penn snorts. "The gifted son of the famous Booth acting family and the most promising American actor of his generation pissing against a saloon wall in the worst part of New Orleans."

"This isn't the worst part of town," Adam says. "Trust me on that." He turns back to again take Edwin's arm but Edwin, with an odd look on his face, turns back around and vomits on the cobblestones.

Penn walks off a few steps and Adam can hear him gagging—apparently a reaction to another's vomiting. Adam waits and hears Edwin wail.

"My shoes. I seem to be off in aim as I have spewed on my own shoes. Penn, give me your scarf."

"I will not!" Penn manages to say and walks off a bit further to escape the stench of sour whiskey and bile and recover his demeanor.

"Here," Adam says pulling out a neatly folded and starched handkerchief. "Use this."

Edwin takes it and lets it drop open. "Thank you, sir." He bends down, almost toppling, and wipes the putrid substance from his shoe tops. He stands and looks at the square of linen. "Adam, I have wiped my shoes with your initials. So sorry—no offense intended-and very generous of you to make such a sacrifice for a friend in need."

"It's all right," Adam says and gingerly takes the handkerchief, holding it by an unsullied corner. It had been a gift, one of two expensive handkerchiefs from Roy Coffee at the party given upon Adam's return to the Ponderosa after college.

Roy had seemed a bit shy at the time—almost embarrassed about the gift of the monogrammed handkerchiefs. "Now, I hope you can use such a fancy thing as those—no cowboy bandanas anymore and don't ask me why the C is in the middle of the initials. The lady who embroidered them said that's the way they're done and they're put in the corner 'stead of right in the middle like I thought they should be."

"Now, Sheriff," Hoss had said smiling, "A man don't want to blow his nose and all that stuff right smack dab in the middle of his initials. Why how'd that look, 'specially with the dust a cowboy breathes in and that's what older brother says he's gonna be—a cowboy."

Sheriff Coffee smiled. "So comin' back to the old homestead for good?"

"Yes. I did like the big city but…well, it's hard to get this place out of your blood."

"Well, I'm glad even though I figured some fancy, big-city man would want something with his initials on it. I met a lawyer once in Cincinnati—let's see…that was near fifteen years ago now and he had initials on gold cufflinks. I couldn't take my eyes off them. So I guess I got the idea set in my mind that a man who works with his head, a man who's been educated, should have somethin' with his initials on 'em."

"Well, I'll treasure these," Adam said, "Running his thumb over the fabric. "Thank you, Sheriff Coffee." And Roy nodded in response, pleased his gift was well-received.

And Adam did treasure them as they were from Roy, a man he admired, but the thought of refolding the now-sordid piece was more than he could bear. He drops it in the street and takes Edwin's arm, helping him up into the hack. Penn soon follows and sniffs disgustingly. He keeps his face turned away from Edwin and Adam.

"Irving," Edwin says, "do you know that Adam, my good friend, Ad here, has invited me to visit the Ponderosa?"

Penn turns, his interest captured. "What is the Ponderosa?"

"His family's ranch—a huge ranch in Nevada Territory. I want to go there after the run here is over. No Philadelphia—cancel as I shall be at the Ponderosa." Edwin makes a sweeping gesture with both arms and Adam leans back to avoid being inadvertently struck.

Pen is now very interested. "You can't do that, Ned. We have a contract with the theater manager of the Walnut. If you don't show, we have to pay him for the breach. And what about the rest of the troupe? They'll be out of work and…you can't do this Ned. You can't."

"I am Edwin Booth. **_I_** can do anything!"

Penn looks past Edwin and glares at Adam, then turns with a huff and looks out at the passing scenery.

"May I," Edwin asks Adam, "rest my head against your shoulder? It seems I am having trouble keeping it upright."

"Of course," Adam replies and Edwin drops his head on Adam's shoulder and within less than a minute, is heavily snoring. Other than that, Penn and Adam ride in uncompanionable silence.

When the hack arrives at the Maison Dupuy hotel, Penn pays the driver who tips his hat in thanks before he snaps the reins and his one-horse cab takes off. Usually he takes couples on moonlight rides about Jackson Square and makes extra money but it's cloudy. He decides he'll drive around and look for a few more fares but this fare, the money he just collected, well, with that he could sleep late in the morning and take off the next few days if he so desired. The man in the cape with the silver-tipped cane had paid him well and asked him not to mention to anyone who the person was who had been picked up at the saloon and that he had been drunk—bad publicity.

Before they enter the lobby, both Adam and Penn help Edwin appear sober and dignified but they practically have to drag him up the stairs; his feet slip off each rising step. Edwin claims that the steps are sinking away beneath his feet, dissolving.

"I am infinitely grateful to you two! Ah, Ad, you are saving me from the morass that threatens to swallow me. You may very well be my savior—saving me from myself."

"God knows I can't do it," Penn mumbles.

Inside the hotel room, Edwin disentangles himself from Adam's and Penn's grasp and declares he is perfectly capable of getting himself to bed. He walks into the bedroom, slips off his jacket and then falls face-down on the bed, turning his face to avoid suffocating in the bedclothes. Penn gently closes the door and then slips off his dramatic cape and white silk scarf and lays them over a chair along with his heavy walking stick. Adam notes the decorative silver knob at the top.

"Hopefully he'll be sober in the morning," Penn says to Adam. "And thank you for your assistance, Mr. Cartwright, but you should be told that drink is the fatal flaw in the Booth family. His father almost brought the whole Booth family to complete ruination due to his drinking; it came to the point where theater owners were reluctant to hire him due to his erratic behavior. I don't want the same to happen to Edwin. I saw his father perform many times and I truly think Edwin is far more talented, far abler to reach people's hearts than Junius was. So I would appreciate it if during your time here, you refrain from carousing with Ned. Now goodnight, to you."

Penn walks to the door of the suite and opens it, standing by for Adam to pass through.

Adam stops in the doorway. "I am a friend of Ned's—that's why I went with him tonight—to keep him safe and I did so. As for carousing, I know about his father and his weakness for drink—observed it many years ago. Yet Ned can't be kept from it like a child from a hot stove—the temptation is too much. He'll have to control himself so I believe it's better to let him do so with a sober friend, someone who can see he gets home safely. I was doing that as I told you and if necessary, I'll do it again."

Penn is confounded; this Cartwright man isn't easy to intimidate and Penn knows that others see him as a worrier and a fussbudget, but it is his job to keep Booth sober and well. Nevertheless, he realizes he won't be able to keep Ned from seeking out Cartwright as long as his friend is in New Orleans.

"You must understand, Mr. Cartwright, how special Edwin Booth is—and I'm not just talking about his great talent. Everyone agrees on that. He has brought a manner of acting that others are now adopting—less 'theatrical' so to speak, and more intimate—he makes the audience feel as if they are one with him—that what he emotes they experience."

Adam waits. Penn realizes that he has yet to say what is most important about Edwin.

"And he has brought respectability to the craft. Even the actresses who have up to now, been seen as nothing better than whores, are profiting from Edwin's friendship with the well-to do and the people of high society. Edwin is invited into their homes, feted and petted. He has broken down barriers and will continue to do so. Do you understand, Mr. Cartwright?"

"Yes, I understand. But Edwin confessed he was tired and needs to escape the weariness of touring—and the demands of both Miss Baudelaire and Miss Simpson. It seems that their bickering has taken its toll on him—he's caught in the middle and realizes it's his own doing."

"Yes, I know about them and his carnal peccadilloes—people confide in me if they want to reach Edwin as he listens to me, but if you'll be so kind…goodnight, Mr. Cartwright." Penn tries to sound strong—determined.

"Goodnight. Perhaps I'll see you at breakfast."

"Breakfast?" Penn is surprised; he wasn't aware that Cartwright and Edwin had further plans.

"Yes. I'm one floor down." Adam smiles as Penn blanches and then, touching the rim of his hat, Adam leaves. But he now knows Edwin's drinking problem is serious, despite his earlier denial—it could ruin him; no one likes a drunk, especially a sloppy one.

~ 0 ~

"Thanks, Pa. I know the tickets were expensive but this, this is a wonderful birthday gift!" Adam was still spellbound; he sat in his seat in the Boston Museum theater, his father, Ben Cartwright, beside him. "Wasn't Booth magnificent!" Adam sat in his seat in the Boston Museum Theater, still under the spell Junius Booth had woven as Richard III, the hunchbacked, villainous titular character. The dichotomy of Richard-his villainous acts that almost made the spectator rejoice-caused the audience members to examine themselves since through Richard's soliloquies, they realized that they share many of the basic emotions as he, as all mankind did. That was something Adam had never experienced. But then he had only seen street players when a child in Virginia City and they performed for the gold or silver nuggets and coins tossed into a hat and the few other plays he had seen had exaggerated villains and heroes; melodrama to the extreme.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it, Adam." Ben Cartwright had traveled to Cambridge for his eldest son's 20th birthday. It had been a long trip, seemingly almost as long as the first trip he had taken out west with Adam as an infant. But this time Ben had traveled part of the way by railroad and it had only taken a few weeks. When he had arrived and seen Adam who looked a grown man having filled out from his younger lankiness., Ben was amazed and almost cried to realize that now his son was truly a separate person, no longer reliant on him for anything except help with tuition and the cost of board. A grown man made his own decisions and Adam seemed no longer to require late-night discussions for guidance as he had done all those years.

And when Ben asked Adam what he would like for his birthday, Adam said that he had seen a lithograph poster for _Richard III_ starring Junius Booth and that he would like to see it—with his father. So Ben bought tickets.

"I'm sorry we didn't have better seats," Ben said, rising from it. "They were the best seats of those that were still left."

"Pa," Adam said, standing and putting his hand on his father's arm, "they were great seats." The two began to leave when Adam decided to ask for one more thing. "Do you think I could tell Mr. Booth how much I admired his performance?"

"I don't think we could go backstage but…well, I've waited at stage doors before a few times but usually for an actress. But why not?" Ben grinned back at Adam. "If he's like all other actors I've met, they live to be told how much they're admired. Maybe he'll sign your program."

The alleyway was chilly as Ben and Adam stood outside the door. Every time it swung open, Adam looked expectantly but so far, had been disappointed. He was about to suggest they leave and go to dinner as per their plans when with great force, the door swung open and Junius Booth in full evening dress swaggered out. He was closely followed by a man who was chastising him and a slender young man close to Adam's age. Adam immediately recognized the young man as "Tressle," a minor character in the play—Edwin Booth.

"If I have to bail you out of another jail cell, well, I think this time I'll let you rot in there!" The second man was furious, gesticulating wildly. "I just can't take this anymore! You have to stop drinking, Junius! Your reputation—that of a drunk—precedes you and soon no one will hire you!"

"Theo, my good man," Booth said, waving dismissively," I have my son Ned with me. He has been sent by his mother to watch over me—to be my guardian angel-and he will."

"He hasn't done that well up to now!"

"I should knock you down for that! You have insulted my progeny. Ned!" The young man looked fearful. "Knock him on his ass!"

"Father, you can't mean that…"

"Ah, Theo, you have escaped being excoriated by myself and being thrashed by my son as my best friend in Boston," Junius Booth stepped toward Ben and put an arm over his shoulders, "has come to show me around this charming town; he will see I am kept safe and sober so be off with you."

"Damn you," Theo said. "I quit! Find yourself another manager-and good luck doing so!" He slammed the door behind him as he went back inside.

"Well," Junius said to Ben, "would you be interested in being my new manager?"

"No, I…"

"Very well—I understand your reticence—or your unspoken refusal. Ned," he turned to his son, "you are my new manager starting this very moment." Junius put out his hand to Ben. "I am Junius Brutus Booth, the greatest actor on two continents; it would be three continents but Shakespeare is not appreciated nor desired in Asia. Now, shall we find a quiet, honest place to enjoy a few spirits. Someplace though where I will not be recognized. It is so difficult to bend one's elbow when fending off adoration."

Even with their differing backgrounds, Ben Cartwright and Junius Booth found they liked each other and talked and laughed heartily—one of the main points of humor being that Ben was a cattle rancher while Booth was a devout vegetarian. "It is a good thing that alcohol isn't derived from animal flesh or I would be boringly sober at all times. But drink—ah! The taste of the grape—or the essence of grain—enhances life—pure ambrosia! I do feel like one of the Greek gods when I drink—standing aloft on Olympus and being worshipped by mere mortals who 'crawl between heaven and earth.'"

While their fathers talked, Adam and Edwin found they had much in common. Although Edwin wasn't the eldest as Adam was, he felt like the eldest having the responsibility of his father's well-being, His mother wanted him to keep his father sober, something she had never been able to do before but finally stopped trying after her third child. Then his mother was relegated to stay behind with the fourth and subsequent children so Edwin, once he hit 14 years of age, was sent to keep his father temperate on his tours—or at least safe; Edwin became his father's closest companion as Adam said he had become his father's on their western journey.

"I envy you your education, Ad," Ned said, the two quickly adopting nicknames for the other. "I was taught at home, my primers were Shakespeare's plays. I haven't been out in the world really since my only companions and playmates were my siblings. It was John, my younger brother, who wanted to accompany my father, so desperately wanting to become an actor but my mother thought my temperament was better suited to the task. I suppose she's right—John has always been a bit of a bully and good with his fists but he's the most handsome out of all of us, resembling our father the most."

Edwin, Adam noted, had soulful, sad eyes, a strong nose and the elegant hands of his father. But he didn't show any desire for drink—at least not yet—and the two young men, Edwin only two years younger than Adam, sipped glasses of wine. But then, Adam thought, having tasted good wine on the Ponderosa, what was in their glasses tasted more like he thought Hop Sing's dishwater would after washing up the dinner dishes.

In the few hours they talked in the tavern on a back street of Boston, the two young men became fast friends and corresponded. Edwin wrote Adam of their itinerary and in every city would be a letter from his friend, Adam, waiting for him. Edwin would write back of his parts in the plays, the backstage gossip, and enclose reviews. And when he had his first speaking part, no more than a few lines, Edwin underlined his mention in a review in _The Baltimore Sun_ that stated he was the obvious heir to a talent that would exceed that of his father. What Ned had not written, since he found it out too late to include, was that one night when his father was "in his cups,' he had revealed to his stunned son that he envied him, Edwin, his obviously superior talent and that he grieved that his own name would be subsumed by that of Edwin Booth, fils.

And in one lonely letter, Ned declared that Adam had become his closest confidant and found that it was easier to pour out his heart's suffering and to reveal his secret desires knowing that his "treasured friend, as you sit reading my words of pain and the exploration of my soul, will not judge me as you are of such tender emotions, of such intellectual loftiness that you well understand a man's search for his true self. Would that I can one day find a woman to love who gives me as much support and emotional fulfillment as you do, my dearest Adam."

But since Junius Booth's death, Edwin had become too busy to write. And so it was that their paths crossed again in New Orleans that spring of 1853.


	3. Chapter 3

**Act III: The Rising Action**

"It's going to be warm today," the waiter says as he pours Adam more coffee. "Soon it'll be so hot you'll be able to fry an egg in the street."

Adam wonders how many times in his life the man described a hot day in that manner. But Adam knows how oppressively hot New Orleans can become. The summer he was 11, Adam had accompanied his father to New Orleans to sell beaver and fox pelts; Ben had a promise from a buyer who would sell the furs in England for expensive men's hats and women's coats. Adam hated the southern climate—the air lay heavily and sometimes he felt as if he couldn't breathe. And the night was still and hot and he lay on the bed made with starched sheets, looking through the mosquito netting that surrounded the bed and listened to the people's voices echoing in the streets and the sound of women's laughter.

His coffee cup is to his lips when he hears Ned's voice behind him.

"I hear it's a good morning but you couldn't prove such by me."

Adam turns halfway and grins up at Edwin who feigns—or perhaps isn't feigning—a terrible headache. "Sit and join me." Adam indicates the chair next to him and as soon as Edwin sits, the waiter comes over with another cup turned over on a saucer. Placing it in front of Edwin, he turns it over and pours the steaming black coffee.

"This is all, thank you," Edwin says and the waiter nods and leaves. "All I can stomach is coffee."

"One thing I have to say for New Orleans, the have the best coffee I've ever tasted," Adam says.

"Yes. They add something called chicory—some sort of root, I believe. I wish they'd add a slug of brandy instead but I am truly thankful for what I have—that passes as prayer. I wasn't raised in the church, you know."

"Well, I was but I've found that it's as ridiculous as Greek and Roman beliefs in gods and goddesses. Man finds something incomprehensible and makes up a story of some divine being to explain it—it's part of man's nature."

"There are more things in heaven and earth…"

"Than are known of in your philosophy." Adam completes the quote.

"If you were in the theater, you would know that many things can't be explained; there may not be a God as you know it or as anyone does but the world is full of odd things, of ghost and hauntings and…well, you are a raisonneur, Adam, and I trust you to be the sane one, the one grounded in logic and what is probable and possible—and what is not. But enough of my wandering musings—I want to apologize for last night-my behavior. I shall wear a hair shirt all day as penance."

Grinning, Adam tells him that things are fine; he saw a part of New Orleans he hadn't seen before and that was something new.

"Nevertheless," Edwin said, "I am leaving you a ticket at the box office—the best seat in the house. Promise me that you will be there!"

"As long as the best seat isn't on the stage!" And the friends laugh together. At last, Adam thinks, he will see the play as anyone else might and enjoy the story of fated love and yearning—and hate and despair and sorrow. Then he remembers Penn.

"I'm surprised Penn didn't forbid you from seeing me." Adam half-smiles.

"Oh, well, he does have my best interests at heart—and his own. He is my manager, does take a cut of my salary and, well, he's a bit in love with me—as odd as that may seem. But he doesn't make any advances, finding what and who he needs in every city we visit but sometimes I feel him hovering over me. Don't let him bother you, Ad—he's harmless."

~ 0 ~

People are beginning to arrive at the theater but Adam has no trouble picking up his reserved ticket; it was as Edwin had said—it was waiting for him in a slim white envelope with his name, Adam Cartwright, written in a looping elegant hand. But Adam wants to see Edwin before the play, wants to tell him that in the morning, he will be leaving for Nevada as his business is now complete.

Adam is relieved that the situation was settled. Once again, Marie's distance cousin, Andre De Vaille, and his lawyer argued that the bequest of $3,500 should go to him, not to this 'Joseph Cartwright'. And De Vaille stated, despite his lawyer's admonitions, Marie was known for her licentiousness. Hadn't her first husband left her when he found her in bed with another man? There was no determination that Joseph Cartwright was nothing more than some illegitimate pup who had no legal standing.

But Adam argued the law of sanguinity—whether Joseph Cartwright was Ben's legitimate son didn't matter as that relationship constituted nothing in the validity of the inheritance; Joseph was Marie's son and therefore should inherit the money. The judge ruled in Joseph's favor and Adam felt an overwhelming sense of relief, as if he had put down a heavy burden. Adam signed the papers and put the draft inside his leather wallet and all the way to the theater, he would touch his jacket every so often to reassuringly feel the bulge inside his pocket.

He is eager to return home. He yearns for the fresh air and blue sky of the Nevada Territory, for softly washed clothing and well-worn boots that had molded to his feet. He wants to be rid of ties and starched shirts, brocade vests and overly-warm suit jackets as well as the smell of mildew that seems to permeate every building.

Following the path he had taken the night before, Adam sees the same rigger checking the ropes and pulleys of the heavy curtains. The man grins at him.

"Not in costume tonight?"

"I'm surprised you remember me and my unmemorable performance.," Adam says, smiling back.

"It was so awful I doubt anyone could forget it." Both men laugh.

"My first performance on stage was also my last performance; the acting life isn't for me."

"Don't blame you, son. These people, actors, they're a strange bunch. You looking for someone?"

"Yes, I'm going back to wish Booth good luck."

"Don't do that—hope instead that he falls on his face."

"What?"

"Actors are as superstitious as sailors—to wish them luck is to tempt fate—don't ever do that!"

Adam remembers Hop Sing telling him long ago, "Mistah Adam must never say him do well in school. Must say him have head of wood—no brain inside. The gods hate pride and look to punish. Must always say bad student, shame to family so gods pass by and do not give bad fortune."

"So I should say, bad luck?" Adam asks the rigger. "I don't know that I can do that."

"Then say nothing at all. I have to admit that it's rubbed off on me, all these superstitions. Why for every performance in the theater, I stand here checking the rigging and look through the curtain to see who comes in the theater first, a man or a woman. Hopefully, it's a man—a woman's bad luck. And don't ever whistle backstage—that's whistling for trouble."

"Thanks for the warning and for the…enlightenment. Should I wish you a good night?"

"No. tell me you hope I break one of these leggings and the whole curtain falls. Then things'll go well with these contraptions all evening."

"As you wish," Adam says, smiling. "Break a legging."

"Thanks," the rigger says, and waves Adam off, going back to the thick ropes.

The backstage corridors were filled with people, stagehands and others, some already in costume, others carrying them and still others checking the scenery. Finally, he reached Edwin's dressing room and again, people other than just with Ned were inside, and as before, he could hear Minerva complaining.

"I know Polly put his horrid thing in my room just like she did the rat!"

Adam stands in the doorway. Edwin, Polly Simpson and Minerva are in costume and it almost seems as if they are rehearsing a scene but they aren't—this is something else entirely. Taggert, the director, stands sternly between the two women and Irving Penn sits in an overly-small wooden chair against the wall. Minerva holds a figure of some sort in her hand.

"I admit I put the rat on your dressing table, well, not me. The man who cleans up killed it in the costume room and I paid him to toss it in your room but that thing—I am innocent of that."

"Let me have that," Edwin says, reaching up for it. He sits at his dressing table, having just put on his make-up, a towel about his neck and tucked into his collar. "It is an odd thing, isn't it?" He turns it over in his hand.

"Well we have more important things to do than this," Taggert says. "You two need to finish dress and makeup. I want the curtain to go up on time."

"They'll wait," Minerva says. "I had good reviews. People are here to see me and Edwin—they'll wait." She sails past Polly, giving her a smug look but when she sees Adam, Minerva pauses. "Oh, you're back. You can come to my dressing room for a bit, that is if you don't mind watching me finish dressing." She smiles as seductively—at least, Adam assumes that is her intent; she is not a very good actress, Adam decides.

Thank you but I've come to talk to Ned."

"Well, I've obviously misjudged you. I should think you would prefer me but, well, all types come to the theater!" Minerva made a show of pulling her dressing gown closer and going on her way, her chin held high.

Edwin hears his friend's voice. "Ad, come in, come in!"

Adam steps inside.

"You remember our director and of course, Irving." Both men nod to Adam. "Look what we have here—some sort of poppet." He holds up the figure to Adam. "What do you think?"

Adam takes the doll; it is obviously intended to represent a woman, and through its bosom and abdomen are hatpins. He knows what the thing is—a voodoo doll. Marie had told him stories of the practice of voodoo, about casting love spells by serving the desired man a double-yolk egg, of performing candle magic to speak to the dead and of harming people with dolls. Marie finally stopped when Ben overheard her one day. Marie defended herself, saying that Adam was curious, that was all; she didn't believe in voodoo but many people did in New Orleans. But Marie was superstitious and some of it had rubbed off on Adam—and he now realizes it.

"This is a form of magic. The doll represents a person and these," Adam pulls out the hatpins, "are to indicate where the harm is to be. Whose are these?" He holds up the hatpins.

"Minerva's," Ned says. "They're just brass with glass gems but they're hers and the doll was in her room. Does that mean she's to suffer—to die?"

"Only if she believes it, I'd say. I mean there's not magic in the world. But if Minerva believes in it and then received this doll she might become sick because she believes. That's how it works, how all that magic works. This is just some fabric, someone's mess of hair glued to the top and not made well at that." Yet Adam looks at the thing he holds and suddenly it seems vile, filthy and malignant. "I say burn it."

Taggert and Edwin glance at one another. "No." Edwin reached for the doll and Adam handed it back. He wants to wash his hands of the tainted thing—both figuratively and literally. "I think—I mean just to be safe—that I'll keep it here. Maybe later we'll burn it."

Penn speaks finally; he had been quietly observing. "I'm sure it was Polly who did it just as she did the rat."

"I don't," Adam says. "Polly admitted to the rat—she didn't have to but she did. She admitted that to give credence to her denial of this and I believe her. I can't see Polly crawling through the dingy streets of the Creole quarters looking for a voodoo mistress. Someone else did this."

"I disagree," Penn says rising from his chair and taking the doll from Edwin. "Polly hates Minerva. After all, up until now, Polly played Juliet—now she plays Juliet's mother; the character doesn't even have a first name. But it was Edwin's choice to make the change. Nevertheless, as Polly had the custodian place the rat in Minerva's dressing room she could have sent someone to get this." He examines the doll closely.

"The rat was a prank of opportunity; this needed to be thought up and carried out. Polly didn't do it—in my opinion."

"Well," Taggert says, "I have too many things to do—I hope this whole issue gets resolved." He turns at the door, "If it is Polly, make her Juliet again. I can't take any more of these histrionics and if Minerva protests, sack her—and I don't mean take her to bed again."

Edwin shakes his head.

"It's all your fault, Ned," Penn says "and I agree with Cartwright—burn the filthy thing as was done with the rat. I'd be happy if we closed tonight and moved on. I've learned to hate this city; it's foreign and a mix of all sorts of cultures. Not to my liking. I suggest you play New York and get this stuff out of your blood.

"I'm going to check the lighting," Penn says and tosses the doll to Edwin on his way out.

"All I need is an upset Juliet," Edwin says as he lays the doll on the table. "It is a repulsive thing, isn't it?"

"Yes, but I came to tell you my business is finished—at last—and I'm leaving early in the morning and since I'm tired and wrung out from the heat today, well, I'll go back to the hotel and bed after the show."

Edwin sits forward. "But you must stay after the show; I want to take you to dinner. No, no," Edwin says, seeing in Adam's face his reluctance to repeat another night like last night. "I swear I'll stay sober as a New England minister. Please, Adam."

"All right. I'll stay."

"Fine, fine!' Edwin clasps Adam's hand and grins. "Come by afterwards and we'll sneak out—hopefully I can avoid Minerva and Penn as I did last night. So it's agreed, yes?"

"Agreed!"

Adam's seat is one of the best; he can see all the action and the acoustics are wonderful, allowing him to hear every word spoken, or in Juliet's case—shrilly spoken. She is as strident as she had been opening night but she is beautiful and her makeup so artfully applied she seems indeed a delicate 13-year-old girl. Adam wonders how Polly with her mature figure had played the role against Edwin's young Romeo. But then, Adam considers, as a boy he had once seen a 40-year-old actor play Romeo; it was part of the magic of the theater.

And surprisingly, the earlier incident gives a certain amount of edginess to Minerva's role and depth to Juliet's anxiety at her situation of marriage to Paris and then her grief at Romeo's death; Adam thought her performance the better for it. If the doll had been left by Polly in an attempt to rattle her competition into giving a poor performance, it had the opposite effect and Polly must feel thwarted.

And while viewing the performance, Adam's mind wanders. Edwin had written in the past about different women he had met in his touring. Although he preferred to think his father was loyal, was faithful to his mother despite their not being married in the legal sense, Ned had written that he feared he had not only inherited his father's talent (since everyone told him he had, he had no choice but to believe it with as much humility as he could muster) but his father's recklessness when it came to women.

"Ah, my friend," Edwin had written, "I confess to you that it is difficult to resist the lovely, young, dewy women who look at me so adoringly. I desire to pluck every one of them and to have them swoon with delight in my arms. They are vulnerable, mistaking me for the many heroic and tragic characters I play. Their seducing is already complete by the time they come to my room.

"But I must resist any new fresh flower for the moment as I have contracted the 'glorious clap' and have been in great discomfort. But it is the consequence of 'gathering rosebuds.' But just think, Adam, with your dark looks and playing the villain, some evil Iago or Macbeth, you would have women sacrificing themselves for your attentions—and assuming, since they would assume you have the personal attributes of the character, being the villain, you wouldn't be expected to marry them. What a wonderful time you would have!"

Adam thought back to what the wardrobe mistress had said, "Must you sleep with all your leading ladies?" The responsibility for the hostilities between Polly and Minerva should be laid at Ned's feet, Adam concludes. He is at fault as he has pressured Taggert, the director, into giving Minerva the lead and relegating Polly to only a few scenes and fewer lines—anathema to any actor or actress. Actors, he had been told, even went so far as to count words and lines and insist on scenes being cut for lesser competition—that is if an actor had enough influence. So why didn't the women join forces against Ned? Was it only out of fear he would have them fired.

The 4th act is almost over and Adam again focuses; the last act is soon to begin and he looks around at the rapt faces. Everyone knows what is coming and Adam knows, just as there had been the night before, women will dab the tears from their eyes with lace-edged handkerchiefs or, as with a few young girls, outright sobbing as if their own one true love had just drunk poison out of lost love for them. To die for love—what a foolish ideal, Adam thinks and yet...

Amid the tumultuous applause, the actors come out to take their bows at least three times, Edwin graciously stepping back and with an encompassing sweep of one arm, indicating all his supporting actors so that the audience will give them alone their due recognition.

Slowly the theater empties, tears still glistening on many a woman's cheeks and Adam finds his way backstage where the stage hands and minor actors now seem tired, sweat plastering their hair to their skulls with the men pulling off their heavy vests; it will take quite a bit of brushing and steaming to make the clothing wearable for the next performance. Much of the wardrobe isn't easily washed and since the same actors wore the same clothes each performance, the necessity was to only make the costumes wearable again, not necessarily clean. Adam thinks, as he winds his way to Edwin's dressing room, that the backstage smells like the bunkhouse when ranch hands gather after a hot day's work on the Ponderosa.

The door is closed and Adam hesitates before knocking. Considering whether to leave and return in another fifteen minutes, he suddenly turns and raps sharply on the door.

"Entre," Edwin's voice responds. Adam opens the door and looks around it, sees Edwin, wearing only a light robe, sitting at his dressing table rubbing what to Adam, looks like lard, on his face and wiping it and the makeup off with squares of white fabric; he is alone and Adam considers that Edwin looks older than his years tonight. Perhaps it's the lighting, lower than earlier when the makeup was being applied, but Edwin looks as if he has been doused in water and wrung out and his valuable wardrobe lays in a pile on the floor where he discarded them. That indicates that Penn has yet come back since Penn fusses about like a mother hen, picking up and organizing.

Earlier Edwin had told Adam about the trunk of costumes inherited from his father—thousands of dollars' worth of valuable costumes and how his younger brother, John, had battled with him over it, insisting that he receive a share. Their mother had intervened; didn't she have enough grief with the loss of her husband? Did her sons have to turn against one another and argue over what little their father had left them? Didn't they care about her at all to break her heart so? And, Edwin had admitted to Adam that John was his mother's dearest; he was strikingly handsome looking so much like their father Junius that people were startled now that he had grown to be a man. Not only that, but he had the grace of a feline and great physical strength. And yet, Edwin had said with a touch of superiority, John lacked the ability to monitor his intonation, to subdue his histrionics as he jumped about the stage as Tybalt having been given the chance to perform. Edwin's refusal to take him on as a member of the troupe caused bad blood between them. It grieved him.

"A wonderful performance tonight," Adam says, taking a seat by the door. The room is so small that he could reach out and touch Edwin had he chosen. "You made all the women cry. By the way," Adam says, "where are your admirers? Their tokens of their admiration?" Adam notices the room is bereft of flowers and love notes.

"I can't deal with any of that tonight, Adam. Penn is blocking them for me. I find that this heat enervates me—I don't want people about and for some reason, I feel weaker than usual. The south…you know, my brother John wants to go about acting and perhaps I'll let him. Divide the costume trunk and the country; he can play the south and I'll play the north. The climate is more amenable to my nature although I do like the gin they have in this part of the country." Edwin smiles but Adam can tell how weary Edwin is.

"Well, let's take an open hack back to the hotel—the breeze will do us good. Maybe they'll have some cold goose tonight on the menu. That and a cool drink ought to bring you back to yourself."

"That sounds wonderful. Let's sneak out the back." Edwin rises and pulls a pair of trousers off a chair, hurriedly steps into them and quickly buttons them up. He slips on a shirt with billowy sleeves—very theatric, Adam thinks—a light jacket and places a silky scarf about his neck. His hair is damp about his neck and temples and he quickly runs a brush through it, looking at himself once more to make certain all his makeup is gone. Then he announces, "Shall we go?"

~ 0 ~

Adam and Edwin sit in the hotel restaurant; they had long ago finished their dinner of cold meats and salad and now sipped demitasses laced with brandy.

"And so," Adam says, "I went to New York to start my apprenticeship. It wasn't that I didn't like designing buildings—I did and still do. I lie in bed and see the turn of a stairwell in my head, what the plans would look like and the proportions. Ideas come to me constantly whenever I visit a city and see the monstrosities that are being raised—and that's the right word—raised. People raise building the way they do barns and that's what the homes and edifices resemble—barns."

"You're an artist, Ad, probably more of an artist than I." Edwin looks beyond Adam and his expression makes Adam slightly turn and glance. "Oh, Penn is here. I suppose he believed we had gone drinking again. Won't he be surprised to find me sober?" The two friends laugh and Adam swivels around in his chair to see an upset Penn approach., his scarf draped over his shoulders and his silver-tipped walking stick in his hand.

"What is it, Irving?" Edwin asks.

"I wish I'd found you sooner-I looked in all the bars along with the police but had the sudden thought that you two might be together…" Penn glances back and forth at the two men. "Well, I'm glad I found you in the dining room. You need to come back to the theater—both of you." He takes a dramatic pause and initially, Adam thinks it's for effect but realizes Penn is truly upset. "Minerva is dead, Ned, and well, it may be murder and they want to question you."


	4. Chapter 4

**Act IV: The Falling Action**

Adam stands by and watches while policemen write down everyone's statements including his. The women sob, comforting one another, all except for Polly who is too busy with her righteous anger and defending herself from any of the "slanderous accusations" suggested by the New Orleans Police Department.

Minerva's body had been discovered by the theater custodian when he went to sweep her room. According to what he had said, Minerva's body was on the floor, her eyes half-open and her face deathly white—bloodless. And beside her was the doll, the voodoo doll and the two hatpins had been again inserted deeply into the effigy of Minerva—that piece of information, that it was supposed to be Minerva, came from Taggert.

Earlier Adam had walked by the open door and seen the body, not yet respectfully covered as a man was examining it closely—and the floor around it. Two other men stood idly by, obviously inured to corpses. And as he looked at her, she reminded Adam of the drowned Ophelia, as beautiful in her death as in her life.

But Adam is itchy about the condition of Minerva's death; too dramatic. Why did someone go through all the business of the voodoo doll? Why not just kill her and be done.

"Excuse me," Adam asks one of the policemen in the corridor." The man looks up at him, only mildly interested.

"My name is Adam Cartwright…"

"Adam Cartwright?" The man leisurely flips through a small notebook he carries and then looks up.

"Have you been questioned yet?" He licks the end of his pencil preparing to write.

"Yes, I have. I have accounted for my time—Edwin Booth and I have corroborated each other's whereabouts. Can you tell me how Miss Baudelaire died?"

"I can't tell you how she died 'cause I don't know—the doctoh'll decide that. You said you name is Cahtwright?" Again, the dropped 'R', Adam notes.

"Yes." Adam sees the man jotting in the notebook. "And you've been questioned?"

"Yes. I told you that. And at great length too."

There is commotion in the hall and Adam steps back out to see Minerva's body carried out—at least he assumes it is since it is covered by a sheet.

Adam turns back. "Are you in charge of the investigation?"

"No. Detective Chauvette is. Why?"

"I just thought he should know something. Excuse me." Adam walks back to where Minerva's body had been and sees a man in a suit sitting on his heels, his back almost completely to the door, examining the doll. Adam pauses at the door-the doll had been in Edwin's dressing room; he still remembers seeing Edwin place it on his dressing table but he can't remember if it had been there when he had stopped by the dressing room after the play nor had Edwin said anything about it.

Chauvette glances over at Adam even though he had done nothing to call attention to his presence, Chauvette stands up holding the doll in one hand and a piece of folded fabric in the other one. To Adam, it appears that Chauvette has taken out his handkerchief to wrap up the doll or to wipe the sweat off his glistening brow. The detective has an intelligent face, Adam decides. It is odd, Adam thinks, how quickly we draw irrevocable opinions of others and much of that derived from the person's face and their eyes. But Chauvette, it's the way he quickly takes stock of Adam, noticing his suit and the fineness of his boots as well as the position of his body partway inside the door that puts Adam on alert. Chauvette is no small town sheriff who doesn't like to work for his $40.00 a month which out west was considered satisfactory pay. But Chauvette is not of that mold; he is a square-set man with a blank-expression; one that Adam considers practiced.

"Yes, Mr…." Chauvette raises his brows expectantly.

"Cartwright, Adam Cartwright." Adam glances again at the doll and then meets Chauvette's eyes. Adam knows Chauvette had observed the direction of his glance and is judging him. So Adam sighs deeply and decides not to attempt to hide any knowledge of anything. He'll answer any question honestly that Chauvette should choose to ask.

Adam put out his hand and Chauvette, put the folded piece of cloth into his left hand with the doll, extending his right to shake hands with Adam. "Detective Chauvette, the New Orleans Police Department. What can I do for you?"

"Well, actually, I thought you might want to know about the doll—the effigy. But I guess you already do."

"If you mean the purpose of it then yes, I am. Mr. Cartwright, I am born and raised in New Orleans and I have grown up among the beliefs of the people. Becoming a policeman, well, I have unfortunately come into contact with the darker aspects of this…magic." He looks at the doll. "This doll was found by the body, lying directly beside it—almost an exact imitation of the victim. The large brass pins, hat pins, are—or so others have told me, the victim's own. As for the hair, I am going to suggest it has been culled from her hairbrush since it looks remarkably clean for that of an actress who fixes her hair many times a night—or it may be from one of her hair pieces—it matters not as long as it was hers. Do you know otherwise, Mr. Cartwright?"

"No, no I don't."

"Then what were you going to tell me—enlighten me, would you?"

Adam doesn't care for Chauvette's sarcasm; it puts him on edge. It was interesting to him how the detective could so easily unnerve him but then that was the man's power.

"You don't really think the lady died from magic do you? She didn't even know what the doll was except that it had her hatpins stuck in it. I doubt she gave it another thought after turning it over. There had been the rat first…and then…how did she die? How do you think she died?" Adam blurts out. He remembers that there were no marks about her delicate neck nor did she look as if she had struggled with anyone but her lips had a slight bluish tinge.

"She stopped breathing."

"Yes, I'm aware if that, but I saw the body earlier. Miss Baudelaire wasn't strangled, garroted or knifed. She wasn't shot—perhaps suffocated but her skin is too smooth for that. If someone is suffocated, don't they have massive red spots about their eyes from broken capillaries?" Chauvette says nothing—just watches Adam. "Were I going to guess, I would think poison and a fast-acting one. Many poisons cause convulsions and contortions or the victim lingers in pain-excruciating pain until they finally die."

"You seem to know quite a bit about poisons and their efficacy as well as the process by which they work? And how is that, Mr. Cartwright? You're from the western part of the country—I can tell that by your boots—square-toed—and the inner heels are marked by stirrups. I would surmise those are your dress boots—Sunday wear. So tell me, how did you become so knowledgeable about poisons?"

"As a boy, I had a friend who was a Paiute. He showed me what were poisonous plants and what weren't and we have a Chinese cook—Hop Sing. He would take me with him to Chinatown and I would go with him to herbal shops. He taught me about some herbs and everyone who ranches has to be able to spot when any cattle have eaten anything poisonous like Jimson weed." Adam wishes he had stopped revealing what he knew but for some reason, Chauvette would have landed on it and wondered why Adam stopped. Best to tell everything lest Chauvette find out later and know he hadn't been forthcoming.

"Jimson weed—Zombi cucumber, at least that's what the Voodoo priests call it. Interesting that you should mention it." Chauvette steps closer and Adam smells his cologne, considering it odd. But then, with all the low-lifes he must deal with, perhaps it's his way of keeping a separate aura about himself.

"It's just a coincidence," Adam says, "but Miss Baudelaire isn't a zombie nor was she having hallucinations—she's dead and granted that given a large enough dose would kill her, she had to have somehow consumed it and…"

Chauvette interrupts. "Mr. Cartwright, I know all that and I know that you were difficult to find. I have been questioning people—many who mentioned seeing you backstage-while my men have been trying to find you and Mr. Booth. Fortunately, Mr. Penn was able to track you two down and return with you to the theater. There is one thing I don't know though and you can answer the question for me—easily. What is your complete name, Mr. Cartwright, your Christian name?"

"Adam Stoddard Cartwright. Why?"

"Does this look familiar?" Chauvette, still holding the doll, managed to drop open the cloth he was holding and Adam saw that in one corner were his embroidered initials, ACS.

"That's mine," Adam said reaching for it.

"It may at one time have been your but now it's evidence."

"It must have fallen out of my…" Adam reaches into his front jacket pocket and pulled out a monogrammed handkerchief. "Wait, that's the one I left on the street last night. Edwin had too much to drink and spewed on his shoes. I gave it to him to wipe them and then, well, I tossed it into the street."

Watching, Adam sees Chauvette raise the handkerchief to his nose and smell it. "It smells like violets, the scent Miss Baudelaire was wearing. There isn't a trace of sour whiskey or bile. I found this underneath the body. It retains the odor of her scent. Was it a love token?"

"No. Of course not. Don't be ridiculous." Adam feels heat rise up his neck and burn in his cheeks. Chauvette is getting the best of him and Adam doesn't like it. It was usually he who was in control, who steered the conversation and made others wary.

"Settle down, boy," Adam tells himself. "You've done nothing wrong. There's a rational explanation for everything."

"Obviously someone found it in the street, washed it and planted it under Minerva's body," Adam says and although he believes it to be true, he realizes he doesn't sound convincing.

"Why is it obvious?" Chauvette steps even closer to him; Adam suddenly feels the chill of fear; he could be arrested for murder and he wasn't in Nevada where the Cartwright name means something and would work on his behalf. He is basically a total stranger in New Orleans and Chauvette holds the winning hand—and Adam's monogrammed handkerchief.

"I told you why. I tossed it aside—ergo, it couldn't have been in my possession."

"An expensive handkerchief like this?" Chauvette runs his thumb over the fine linen.

"Yes. It wasn't easy to just drop it—it was a gift from a family friend—two handkerchiefs and they cost him dearly, I'm sure. He's the sheriff…" Adam regretted adding Roy's occupation as Chauvette almost snapped at him the way a vicious dog at the end of the chain would.

"Are you attempting to intimidate me with your connections, Mr. Cartwright?"

"No. I'm just stating facts. I had two handkerchiefs with my initials. I tossed one in the street because it stank and was so befouled I couldn't bear to put it back inside my pocket and now I have one—this one." Adam held it out again for emphasis. "That one must have been picked up by…someone, anyone and put here in an attempt to frame me. It's planted. I would have no reason to kill Miss Baudelaire. None. Murders rarely are random. This wouldn't even qualify as a murder of opportunity. That handkerchief was planted."

"And why would anyone want to frame you for murder? Have you made any enemy so awful that he would want to set you up for this crime?"

"No—not that I know about. But maybe whoever it is, thought he would frame me while he…escapes. It would take a day or two to clear me and then whoever it is would be long gone or have covered their tracks by then…" Adam knew he was blathering and forced himself not to declare his innocence again; it should be obvious he was innocent and that was the stance he would take.

Chauvette quietly thinks for a few minutes looking first at the doll and then at the handkerchief. He looks again at Adam and smiles.

"You said you were with Mr. Booth when you threw this handkerchief away. Can he attest to it?"

Adam sighs resignedly. "I doubt it. He wasn't aware of much of anything—not even where his feet were on the ground—or if they were on the ground."

"Was there anyone else with you two?"

"Irving Penn, his manager, and a waiting hack driver."

"Can they swear to it, either of them?"

Adam remembers that Penn turned away, stepped away and gagged when Edwin vomited. He also thinks back to the hack driver but doubted he could attest to anything; his only interest had been his final calculation of the fare which had ended up being paid amid cursing under his breath by Penn.

"No. I doubt they could."

"Had you any relations with Miss Baudelaire, the victim?"

"No, I just met her yesterday, and that only briefly. This is ridiculous."

"I don't happen to think it is." He steps even closer to Adam—they are almost nose to nose but Adam determines he will not back up even a half-step. Chauvette looks at him steadily, his face revealing nothing. "If I ask around, will I hear of something, anything to indicate an interest between the two of you? A sexual interest perhaps?"

Minerva had flirted with him and she hadn't been subtle. There had been other people backstage when she touched him, when she ran her hand along his thigh, when she smiled at him and tossed her hair flirtatiously and invited him to visit her dressing room. Suddenly, much to Adam's disgust with himself, he realizes he has been trapped by Detective Chauvette into the position of a murder suspect. It had happened so easily.

"Well, Mr. Cartwright? Will I?"

"Yes."

"And you said the doll had been turned over. To whom?"

Adam pauses; he doesn't want to answer but it's no secret. "She left it with Edwin Booth—in his dressing room."

"And you're familiar with where that is—correct?"

"Of course."

"Did anyone accompany you to the play?"

"No. I had a box to myself."

"So you could have gone backstage and barely been missed—or noticed mid-production."

"I've had enough," Adam says. "I'm leaving."

~ 0 ~

Adam lies on the bed, his arms folded beneath his head, the sheets chest-high. The world seems mystical through the sheen of the mosquito netting about his bed. The gas street lights glow like multiple full moons in a foreign universe and any other time, the evening could be viewed as romantic. Adam well-understood why his father viewed New Orleans in such a positive light; after all, he had found love here and Adam often felt that Marie, Joe's mother was his father's greatest love or perhaps, his father's greatest folly; she hadn't lived long enough to prove either. Adam had often watched as his step-mother led his father on a merry "dance" and he was old enough to know why his father and his young wife spent so many Sunday afternoons locked upstairs in their bedroom.

It's strange, Adam thinks, the thoughts that run through a man's head, ideas and such that leap about in a mind when sleep won't come. "Macbeth does murder sleep." The line from Shakespeare's play runs through his mind and it, in turn, suggests others. "The sleeping and the dead are but as pictures." Yes. Minerva could have been sleeping if only her eyes had been closed. Minnie Bodine—Minerva Baudelaire—dead. "Sleep no more."

He closes his eyes, desiring sleep—his head is heavy but his mind keeps spinning thought after thought, one thought raises another, one thought giving birth to another.

"O true apothecary, they drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die," Romeo's last words. Adam sits upright, breath stepping up and he knows he won't sleep that night. An apothecary—poison—the blueish shade of Minerva's lips-killed by a quick-acting poison and in the back of his memory is the name of one he read about in a history book. What's the name? Nero used it on his own family members who threatened his reign. Does Chauvette know about that poison, he wonders? Chauvette must know. The man is too intelligent, too incisive to not know but the man wasn't as educated as he—at least not institutionally schooled. But perhaps Chauvette was a history buff. Thinking back on his conversation with Chauvette again angers Adam—not anger with Chauvette, but with himself. In being questioned, he, as everyone else did, he was sure, abandoned his objectivity and focused more on defending himself than on weighing each question and the answer's possible consequence before replying.

 _"_ _I hope by leaving you don't mean New Orleans," Chauvette had said._

 _"_ _Yes. I'm leaving in the morning. My business here is complete."_

 _"_ _I see. And just what was your business, Mr. 'Cahtwright'?"_

 _Adam caught just the slightest hint of low-class French Cajun in the last question when Chauvette dropped the 'R' from his last name. Now he saw Chauvette's vulnerability and quickly surmised that Chauvette was Arcadian and had probably grown up on the streets. But being an intelligent boy, he garnered knowledge of people, how they thought and how they could be beaten down and decided that he would rise a degree or two in society. So he joined the police force and worked to drop his "Looziana" accent for a more cultured one. And Adam was less intimidated but it was too late._

 _Nevertheless, he couldn't resist letting Chauvette know he had picked up on the detective's flaw. "My youngest brother inherited money from a relative of his mother's, Marie De Vaille. A cousin of hers felt he deserved the money so I came to New 'Ahlins' to argue the case. That's how my stepmother always pronounced it—she was from the flats. Nevertheless, the issue was resolved in my brother's favor. I had hoped to get home soon. "_

 _Chauvette straightens himself and adjusts his jacket, buttoning it shut, his mouth grim. "I'm afraid that you'll have to cancel your plans. Until the cause of death is discovered, everyone who has come into contact with Miss Baudelaire is a suspect and by your own admission, you had contact with her. I'll have an officer take all your information."_

 _"_ _I've given my information. Am I a suspect?" Adam asks._

 _"_ _You shouldn't have to ask. I should think you would know—you seem like such a bright boy." The two men stare at one another. "Now, I still have work to do in here so if you would leave…"_

 _Adam gives a slight, sarcastic bow and leaves Minerva's dressing room. He decides he will wait for Edwin and together, they will walk back to the hotel; it was only a few blocks. The air would help clear his muddy thinking. Yes, he'll wait for the grieving Edwin and he was grieving and deeply shaken; it wasn't an act although if this were some farcical tragedy, Edwin's behavior would be the proper response._

 _And there would be no carousing that night._

Adam pushes the mosquito netting over his head so it falls behind him; it's like a huge spider's web. He steps into his trousers and walks through the open doors to step out onto his balcony. It fronts Toulouse Street on the fringes of the French quarter. He hadn't check his pocket watch which sits on the nightstand along with his wallet but his assumption is that it's past 1:00 in the morning. The street is basically quiet and the only lights on are the streetlights and a window in a building across from him.

Marie had been right, Adam decides, when she told him that New Orleans had the same feel as France, the narrow streets, the architecture—and that had interested Adam. Architecture could be identified as having a place and a time and the idea of building a home someday that would be an escape to another world fascinated him. Although as a child, he had always had an interest in building structures, creating bridges across fingerling streams and houses from left-over boards, his memories of the buildings in New Orleans had stayed with him and inspired him. But he didn't like the city no matter what.

And yet as he leans on the wrought iron balcony, Adam admits there is a beauty about the place. It is almost as if the city is an old woman who has aged but when a man sees her, he can also see her past glory, her faded loveliness. He breathes in the air and the scent of jasmine that blooms only at night is heavy, a perfume on the light breeze that ruffles his hair and touches his cheek.

He thinks about tomorrow. Adam decides he will wire his father first thing and say he is delayed; he hates to lie but to tell his father that there has been a murder and that he is a suspect will only cause worry. He decides he will tell his father a half-truth; he has met up with Edwin Booth and has decided to stay a few more days. Then, Adam decides, he will go to the apothecaries and ask about any poisons lately purchased. He knows that Chauvette may very well be doing the same or delegating officers to do so and that he should let them carry out their jobs to discover the true killer. But he was a murder suspect and wanted to clear himself as quickly as possible and Adam was of the belief that no one else had his interests foremost. He would be his own detective.

So he stretches and yawns. Now that he has a plan for the morrow he feels a calm settle upon him; he'll go back and try for sleep again and this time it may well come.


	5. Chapter 5

**Act V: Evidence Mounts**

 _"_ _But, Adam, what am I to do?" Edwin is still crying; he had begun on their walk back to the hotel and in the dark, no one would have noticed except that he occasionally sobbed. "Death is so horrible…I didn't love her, Adam, well, not the way I should have. She wanted to marry—said we would become the most famous acting duo in the world. She would be Desdemona to my Iago, Ophelia to my Hamlet, Cleopatra to my Antony. All of those characters die, Ad. Ironic, isn't it?" Edwin wipes is eyes with his scarf._

 _"_ _Here," Adam says. He pulls the monogramed handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and hands it to Edwin._

 _"_ _Thank you, Ad. You always seem to have what I need—the mundane and the exceptional."_

 _"_ _Where's Penn?"_

 _"_ _Still at the theater. I think he's trying to keep my name out of the paper."_

 _"_ _How does he hope to do that? A woman was murdered, one of your troupe, your Juliet. Isn't everyone a suspect?"_

 _Edwin became serious then, handing the handkerchief back to Adam._

 _"_ _Irving said that he would just keep my name from being mentioned—not the theater or such—that would be impossible—just my name. And do you know what, Ad?"_

 _"_ _What?"_

 _"_ _Irving and Taggert, they said that the box office would bust open tomorrow; they saw Minnie's death as a positive thing, a way to sell more tickets-publicity. And Polly—she's delighted and went straight to Meg to let out the dresses again. I'm surprised there wasn't another murder—that Meg didn't stab Polly with a pair of scissors through her heart—but then it's too hard. The scissors end would snap off."_

 _Adam smiles to himself at the idea of Meg, finally having enough and attacking Polly._

 _"_ _Detective Chauvette told me not to leave New Orleans—he thinks I did it," Adam says._

 _Edwin stops in the street. "You, Ad?"_

 _"_ _Yes. And I can't say that I blame him, really, the way I seemed to…well, it was my handkerchief found under her body."_

 _"_ _I knew nothing about that; Chauvette told me nothing."_

 _"_ _Doesn't he also suspect you?"_

 _Edwin slowly shakes his head, remembering. "No. Not that I know. He just talked to me for a few minutes and then offered his condolences. Told me I could leave at any time—that's it. You must be wrong, Ad. He couldn't possibly suspect you, think you're a murderer."_

 _Adam gave a disdainful chuckle. "I hope I am wrong." But he knew he wasn't._

"Cyanide?" Adam asks the man behind the counter. "Do you have cyanide for sale?" The poison's name had come to him as he had shaved. "Eureka," he said to himself although Archimedes had been Greek, not Roman. But it still made him smile—his own little joke. He ran the razor up his neck and the underside of his chin and smiled to himself; he is certain that Minerva had been killed with cyanide. All he had to do is figure out why she took it it—and how she came to have his handkerchief underneath her, clean and laundered.

"No, sir, can't say I've had any call to stock that. If you want it for rats, well, I recommend 'ahsnic' imbued cheese. You just soak hunks of cheese is 'ahsnic' stirred in some sweet wine and the rats'll gobble it down. Die in a day or two. Best 'paht' is they usually crawl away to die outside—nothin' worse'n a rotting rat in the attic—stinks up the whole place."

Adam notes that the man speaks the same way as Chauvette.

"Has anyone else come in asking if you have cyanide?"

"Funny you should mention that? Just this mahnin' a policeman come in here and asked me if anyone had been asking for it but no one had—'cept now you." The man narrows his eyes and looks at Adam suspiciously.

A bit thrown, Adam thanks the pharmacist and leaves. He is making himself more of a suspect by visiting pharmacies. That is the third pharmacy he's visited and asked about cyanide and the second place where the police had earlier visited. What will they think when they go to the third pharmacy and the pharmacist describes him? But this is after Minerva's death; it shouldn't place him in any jeopardy—the timing is off. Nevertheless, it makes him uneasy and he stands on the sidewalk amid the noise and the rising heat of the day and wonders about his next step.

He should be on his way home, on a train taking him away from what is becoming a quagmire into which he is sinking deeper and deeper and may find himself unable to be saved; innocent men have been hanged before.

 _"_ _It's your pride, Adam. And if you'd listen better to the sermons instead of letting your mind wander, you'd know that 'pride goeth before a fall'. This is unacceptable!" Ben Cartwright holds an unfolded note brought home by his 14-year-old son._

 _"_ _Mr. Lowery just doesn't like me, Pa. For just saying a few words to Becky Wilson, he paddled me in front of the whole class—some of the kids were giggling. I just couldn't…" Adam stops talking; it will do him no good to defend himself—or attempt to defend himself. As far as his father is concerned, if you are punished in school, you will be punished at home. That was the rule on the Ponderosa but this was the first time for him. Usually it was Hoss who brought home notes stating that he had been put in the corner facing the junction of the bare walls due to not paying attention. If he wanted to stare at something, he could stare at the wall instead of out the window, Mr. Lowery would state. That made Adam angry; Hoss didn't deserve it, he felt. And the consequence at home was that Hoss would be denied dessert. "And you can go to your room now and think about that the next time you decide to daydream in school!" Hoss would slowly go up the stairs as if he was taking the steps to the gallows, his head hung in sadness—no dessert—no sponge cake or peach cobbler or butterscotch pudding. Seemed that Hop Sing always made his favorite on those days. But this—Adam knew he had gone too far but Mr. Lowery had humiliated him._

 _"_ _Adam, you can't do things like this! I…I just don't know…and I'm on the schoolboard! My son assaults the teacher. I'm one of the people who hired Mr. Lowery, told him these are nice students. I swear, Adam, if you weren't so big I'd take a switch to you!"_

 _Adam looks up at his father, righteously affronted. "I didn't 'assault' him, Pa. I just took the paddle from him!"_

 _"_ _Adam…." Ben sighs and drops into a chair, "you jerked the paddle from his hand according to what he wrote. Do you deny that?" Adam shakes his head. Ben doesn't know what to do with his son, his intelligent son who is afflicted with the sin of pride. "So you were embarrassed. The other students will forget. What I want you to do is apologize to Mr. Lowery. Tomorrow, first thing, I want you to tell Mr. Lowery you're sorry."_

 _"_ _But I'm not."_

 _"_ _Say it anyway."_

 _"_ _No, Pa. I can't."_

 _Ben stands up and walks over to Adam, looms over his son and looks down at the dark head. Suddenly his boy seems a stranger to him._

 _"_ _You can't or you won't."_

 _Adam considers. He knows he's pushing things too far and has never yet defied his father but he's not sorry for what he did and if in the same situation again, he would do the same thing. The teacher had grabbed him by the ear and led him to the front of the room. Adam put his hands on the edge of the desk as he was told, as he had seen students do all year, and waited. Then the paddle struck him and practically lifted him onto his toes. It stung. And there would be more. He heard some students gasp at the ferocity of Mr. Lowery's swing but he also heard a chuckle of derision—or at least that's how he perceived it. Some of the older boys laughed, the older boys who had been on the receiving end before. That stung more than Mr. Lowery's paddle. Adam stepped aside and the teacher almost fell over from the force of the swing that missed the target._

 _"_ _Get back here, Adam."_

 _"_ _No, sir."_

 _"_ _Adam this is the last time I'm going to tell you. Get back here."_

 _Mr. Lowery was red-faced, filled with rage at the boy who challenged him. He raised the paddle, taking it behind his head in order to strike out. Adam watched in a disinterested manner, able to see everything with new clarity. And when the paddle came close to striking him, Adam put out a hand and caught the teacher's wrist. Then he wrenched the paddle out of the teacher's grip with his other hand and faced the shocked Mr. Lowery._

 _Adam calmly placed the paddle on the teacher's desk and retook his seat, the sting from the paddling making it feel as if his buttocks were on fire. But he made no show of it, just sat. The classroom remained silent and Mr. Lowery looked at him. But Adam wouldn't drop his eyes. Mr. Lowery would think more than just twice before he raised a hand to Adam Cartwright again._

 _Adam had to decide if he was going to defy his father as well. He decided. "I won't apologize." The boy waited._

 _"_ _You won't," Ben repeated. "You couldn't bear to be laughed at so you fought your teacher and now you're fighting me, fighting my authority as well. All due to your pride. Son, you'll find that pride is not a servant but the master. Don't let it rule you._

 _"_ _You're intelligent, Adam, and you've always made me proud but right now, I'm ashamed. And over the years you'll find there's a lot you don't know and that others can be as smart or even smarter than you or at least more experienced in the ways of the world. Now go upstairs. I don't want to look at you for the next day or two so just give me a wide berth."_

Adam had eventually apologized to both his father and to Mr. Lowery but he knew he didn't feel sorry for anything but a person had to live in the world with others. And Adam did learn about pride, about how it took away a man's judgment just as, Adam realized, his pride in his ability to maneuver and manipulate others had caused him to be blind to Chauvette's skill at backing him into a corner, leaving him no out. And now he is seeking the resolution to the crime when he knows he should leave it to the professional detectives.

And yet, his freedom, maybe his very life, is in jeopardy and Adam is compelled to continue searching for the purchaser of the poison. But as he strolls under the balconies that are lined with flower boxes filled with geraniums, he realizes that the cyanide could have been purchased elsewhere in a less reputable part of town. He passes a café and smells the fresh-roasted coffee, takes a seat at a little table under an umbrella in the café's courtyard and is soon served a pot of rich coffee.

A young Caribbean Creole man lounges outside the courtyard, leaning on the wrought iron fence. He absentmindedly picks at his nails and wearing a straw hat, pulls it down over his eyes. Adam remembers seeing him outside the last pharmacy he had checked; the man must have followed him. The Creole glances back at him and then behaves as if he just happens to be looking around. He's not as old as Adam thought—maybe 16 or 17. His trousers are too short but his shirt is too large, an over-sized blue linen shirt with short sleeves, and he wears odd-looking shoes. Adam knows the name but it won't come to him. Suddenly it does—espadrilles. The sole is made from rope wound about and onto itself. Spanish sailors wore them and they sprang up all over the Caribbean. He had learned that when he was in school. Since his grandfather and his father had both been sailors, he was always fascinated. The sailors would come into port and sometimes Adam would see them when he and friends would go into Boston for a weekend.

Adam soon finishes his coffee and steps back onto the street. The young man stands straight and clears his throat.

"Excuse me, mister."

Adam turns. The man smiles, showing his white teeth. The whites of his eyes have a slight yellow tinge but his teeth are glaringly white and straight. Sweat rivulets run down his cheeks.

"Why are you following me?"

"I'm here to help you. You asking for poison. I can show you where you can buy all you want—what you need. You come with me, I take you see Mama Zee. She have what you need. Mama Zee, she know. She sell you not what you want but what you need—all powders, all candles. You want love? Mama Zee help you find it. She have potion to bind a woman to you forever—become your slave. You want harm someone? Mama Zee help you. She make you powerful—make you master."

"So you say."

"I say truth. You want find Mama Zee? I show you. Give me nickel and I show you."

"All right." Adam pulls coins from his pocket, finds a nickel and tosses it. The young man catches it overhand and slips it in his pocket, continually smiling.

"You follow me," he says and walks away, glancing back to see if Adam is following.

Adam thinks about following, whether he should or not. After all, this is a strange city and he looks well-off. He regrets he hadn't brought casual clothes as the way it is now, he may be walking into a trap, be set upon by a gang of thieves and robbed of all he has or even killed if he resists. But he also may find out who bought the cyanide. And this may also be his entre into the world of voodoo where he can find who bought the doll as well. He thinks it may be one and the same if this young man was in the habit of taking people to "Mama Zee."

The young man pauses, beckons and continues when Adam starts after him.

The young man leads Adam away from the center of town and soon Adam finds himself maneuvering through narrow streets and alleys, only two people can walk abreast in some sections and Adam constantly looks about. Children run and play between the buildings and women yell out and call to one another across the alley where they dry clothes by hangting them over the balcony rail. Dogs sniff about for food tossed from windows as garbage and Adam finds he has to watch his step. Chamber pots have also been dumped on the streets and the stench of the crowded people and their refuse and waste abuses his nose.

The streets twist and turn and Adam worries he won't be able to find his way out. He'll probably have to pay the young Creole three times what he paid to find his way to Mama Zee to find his way back out. Finally, the Creole stops in front of a small building. Here it is quiet; no barking dogs or laughing children or complaining women. The doorway is narrow and low; he'll have to duck his head, Adam thinks, to get inside. A flowered shawl drapes over the front window from the inside and he can see light glowing within.

"Mama Zee here—her shop. She sell what you want. You show respect, Mama Zee treat you nice. You be proud, Mama Zee not help—may curse." The young Creole man, still smiling even as he presents the warning, steps aside and gestures for Adam to enter.

Adam puts one foot inside and turns. "Coming in?"

"No. I only bring people to Mama Zee—and take them out." He smiles anew and then slouches against the painted stuccoed wall. Adam pauses and watches while the young man pulls a rolled cigarette with twisted ends from his oversized shirt's pocket. The man turns to him again, smiling broadly. "Go in. Mama Zee not come out—you must go in." The young Creole strikes a match against the wall and lights the cigarette and Adam steps inside.

~ 0 ~

The interior of the small room is dark but Adam's eyes quickly adjust. But it's also stifling. The air is thick with the smell of smoke and he can see why. An old woman sits in a rattan char in the corner behind a small table smoking a pipe. On the table is a deck of cards. Across the back of the room is a partial counter and along the walls are shelves after shelves of jars and canisters. Nothing is labeled and other than that, it closely resembles the herb shops in Virginia City's Chinatown; he had often as a child, visited with Hop Sing, Hoss carried on the Chinese man's hip.

A woman of indeterminate age sits on a stool behind the counter preparing some concoction from the jars she has lined up in front of her. Two candles burn to give her light. Neither woman has yet to look up and when they do, they don't seem surprised to see a well-dressed man standing in the middle of their dingy shop.

"Pretty Louie bring you here," the younger woman states—it's not a question.

Adam takes off his hat. "I don't know his name," Adam says, "but a young man brought me here. He said Mama Zee would have what I need? Are you Mama Zee?"

A chuckle comes from the person sitting at the small table. Adam remembered what "Pretty Louie" had said: "You show respect, Mama Zee treat you nice. You be proud, Mama Zee not help—may curse." Adam considers that he may not get what he wants, what he needs—information—unless he shows what Mama Zee considers respect. What that is, Adam isn't certain.

"Are you Mama Zee?" Adam asks.

"Come closer."

Adam approaches a few steps. He hears the other woman move about and then the padding of her slippers as she comes up behind him. Adam can't help buy glance back but instead of seeing the woman with a hatchet in her hand or some other weapon as he feared, she holds a candle aloft and places it on the round table. She glances at him and then pads back to her counter and her work.

The candle lights up the turbaned woman sitting at the table. Her face is nothing but wrinkle upon wrinkle, crease upon crease and her eyes are rheumy and the irises, milky. Adam realizes the candle was for his benefit, not Mama Zee's; she is blind.

"Sit down." Adam hesitates. Mama Zee laughs showing she has no teeth. "Sit. Mama Zee no bite you." She laughs again at her joke but Adam is still hesitant. To sit will put his back to the door. Not to sit would be disrespectful and although Adam isn't afraid of being cursed, he does have a fear of Pretty Louis sneaking up and knocking him out.

"Thank you." Adam pulls out the chair and sits down while Mama Zee takes a deep drag on her pipe. "I've been told that you can give me—sell me, that is, what I need. What I need to know…"

Mama Zee holds up a withered hand that resembles a talon more than a human hand and Adam wonders how old she is.

"I tell you what you want to know." She reaches out and sweeps up a deck of cards. "Here. Shuffle this."

"I bed your pardon." He old woman is difficult to understand between her thick Caribbean accent and her withered gums that prevent her from pronouncing clearly.

"Shuffle." She holds out the deck. "You need hold them—touch them. Shuffle the cards—three times you shuffle."

Adam takes the cards and turns them over to see what figure or image is on them. They have odd pictures and symbols, numbers and unearthly flowers printed on them, things that mean nothing to him so he turns the deck over again and shuffles three times as instructed. Then Mama Zee reaches out for them and Adam places the deck in her hands. She smiles widely. She slaps the top three cards on the table top and turns them over. Then calls, "Bebe. Come tell me the cards."

Leisurely, the woman behind the counter walks over and in a rapid patois, she talks about the cards, touching each one. Mama Zee nods finally and the woman, glances at Adam and goes back to her work.

"You want information."

It's all Adam can do not to respond sarcastically that they had already covered that, but says nothing.

"Ah, you want know who buy poison. Mama Zee right?"

"Yes, that's right." Adam wasn't impressed with the card reading trick. He had seen parlor magic—mind readers, fortune tellers and the rapping on tables, signals from the dead; they were all tricks believed by gullible people who yearned to connect with lost loved ones. And since "Pretty Louie" had followed him from pharmacy to pharmacy, why couldn't someone else have been there as well and scurried back to Mama Zee to let her know another mark was coming, another pigeon to pluck?

"Woman is dead. Mama Zee right?"

Adam sits back. How can this blind old woman know? But it's a trick. It has to be. "Yes. A woman died."

"You want to know if poison sold here, right?"

"Yes, and not just if it was sold but who bought it?"

"Bebe," the old woman calls, not turning her head. She gives some sort of order to Bebe and the woman goes into the back. She returns with a tissue-wrapped packet tied with string and sitting it on the counter, takes down a jar from the shelf and opening it, shakes out a small amount onto another piece of tissue paper and carefully folds it and ties it. Then she carries both packets to the table and sits them down in front of Adam. He stares at them, resisting the urge to open them; they may not be for him.

"Those are for you—that is if you can pay."

"What are they? Can I unwrap them?"

Mama Zee takes up her pipe again and smokes for a few seconds before answering. "You buy first. Then you can unwrap, you can burn, you can drop in street. They be yours and they be what you desire. Why you come way out here, way out where you only white man if not for these things?"

Adam's curiosity has won. "How much?"

Mama Zee smiles her toothless smile again. "What you have in your pocket. All money you have on you."

Adam's glad that when he telegraphed his father that morning, he also sent the draft. Otherwise, he would more than likely have to sign it over to Mama Zee if he wanted the two packets.

"All right—all I have on me. But you have to tell me who bought the same things yesterday—or earlier."

"Mama Zee blind old lady. What she can tell is he white man, was afraid, and he kill for love."

"For love of an actress?"

She shrugs. She also seems tired with him. "Love is love."

"Was he tall, short? Can you tell me that?"

She smiles widely—again showing her toothless gums. "Look my eyes—they see no one, not the outside of person, just the inside."

"Did Bebe see him? Can she tell me?"

"She can but…not tell. Now, you want these, you pay." She tapped the items before Adam. It's odd, Adam thinks, how she can just find the packets, not having to feel around; he's certain all of it is fraudulent. He's also certain Pretty Louie seeks out pigeons on a daily basis and brings them back to Mama Zee.

"Mama Zee have nothing more for you." She swept her hand over the table, gathering the three cards and returning them to the deck, the pipe held between her gums.

Standing up, Adam pulls out his slim leather wallet and takes out the $14.00 dollars lined up neatly inside. He places the bills on the table and then reaches into his pocket for his change. Gathering it, he slaps the coins on the table.

"That's all I have on me."

Mama Zee nods and stares into space. "Now take what's yours," she says and then smiles and once again, Adam thinks she is grotesque, resembling a perverse gargoyle. He takes up his packets and slips them in his pocket.

"Thank you," he says. Mama Zee nods. Adam glances over at Bebe but she has lost interest in him and goes about pulling two more jars off the shelf. Adam steps outside and the New Orleans sunshine makes him blink. Pretty Louie is waiting; he smiles.

"I show you way out," he says and for the second time that morning, Adam follows the man through the narrow, winding streets until Louie stops and turns to him. "You follow this street then turn right. You know where you be then."

"Thank you. I have no money…"

"It supposed to be that way," he says and laughs. He takes off in the direction they came and Adam feels a fool. He's just been taken, another visitor to New Orleans fleeced by the denizens.

~ 0 ~

Adam hurries to return to the hotel and examine his "purchases" in the privacy of his room. He also anticipates the feeling of relief when he will strip off his jacket, tie and his damp shirt and just cool down. He'll ask for lemonade to be sent up to his room, he decides, and is so engrossed in how uncomfortable he is and envisioning the pending respite that he doesn't notice the man coming up on his left side until he feels a grip like a vise on his arm. Adam turns quickly, snapped back to the reality of where is—on the street and not being vigilant.

"What?" he says, taking in the man's suit, his size and gauging his strength. Adam decides he can knock the man on his ass and stalk away but the man smiles in a friendly manner and says for Adam to just relax. He reaches in the pocket of his light-weight, wrinkled jacket, still smiling benevolently, and shows his badge pinned into a leather wallet of sorts—the same way Detective Chauvette had his.

"You've been following me," Adam states.

"Of course. Lt. Chauvette's orders. Now if you will come with me…"

"Am I under arrest?" Adam determines not to move from the spot until he knows. People pass the two men and no one seems to perceive an unusual situation. Hacks and buggies clatter along the bricked streets and the normal noises of a busy city fade into a buzz inside Adam's head. He's suddenly aware that his head aches; it's at the base of his skull and creeping to the top of his head.

"Of course not—at least not yet but if you should decide to protest…well, I have handcuffs on me and I would hate to make a scene."

"Where to?" Adam is resigned to going where the policeman takes him.

The policeman smiles "To Lt. Chauvette."

They walk in silence. Adam can feel the man's tenseness, ready at any moment to grab him again and although Adam knows he wouldn't do anything so foolish, he imagines taking off, running until he reaches…he doesn't know. But he won't do it anyway and the idiocy of his situation falls upon him and he smirks derisively.

"What's so humorous? You think this whole thing is funny? A woman's been murdered."

"I'm not laughing over that. I'm laughing because I thought I could solve this thing and all I've done is get in deeper. To dig a hole you always have to be at the very bottom and there's no place to go but down." Adam glanced over at the man. "My father used to say that—just a little homey, paternal advice for me and my brothers."

They round a corner and Chauvette sits at an outside café table sipping from a demitasse cup. The smell of rich coffee fills Adam's nose again; for the rest of his life, the smell of coffee blended with chicory will always be associated with New Orleans. Adam and his 'companion' stand by the table.

"Sit down, Mr. Cartwright," Chauvette says. He doesn't smile and neither does Adam. The other policeman steps away but loiters nearby. Adam pulls out the fancy iron chair and sits; the chairs are uncomfortable and Adam, whose mind always searches for logical reasons for various things he encounters, decides that it is because the café owner doesn't want patrons to linger too long over their cup of coffee.

"Why did you have me followed?"

"I have a man watching everyone who had contact with Miss Baudelaire but you, well, you have to admit that you are a good suspect—an excellent suspect. All the others, they have been with the troupe and Miss Baudelaire for quite a while. I would think if any of them wanted her dead, it would have happened by now. But you show up and she is dead within a day. Not only that, she flirted with you—according to one of the supernumeraries, and you resisted her. Perhaps you don't care for women but that is beside the point, isn't it? And I find your monogrammed handkerchief under the body and now, well, where have you been, Mr. Cartwright? I can ask my man of course, but I prefer that you tell me yourself."

A waiter comes to the table. "May I get you anything, sir?" he asks Adam.

"No. Yes—a cool glass of anything." He turns to Chauvette. "That is if you'll pay. I've been cheated, I think, of all my money."

Chauvette nods and the waiter leaves. The two men sit in silence until the waiter returns. He places a tall, slender glass in front of Adam and much to Adam's delight, it actually has two chunks of ice in it. He thanks the waiter who takes the coins offered by Chauvette, and raises the glass and sips; it's ginger flavored and sweet—and cold. He removes his hat since they sit under a striped awning and presses the glass against his throbbing temple.

"Now, Mr. Cartwright—your adventures today?"

Adam told Chauvette about his visit to the various pharmacies and the results—no one had sold any poisons that killed within a few seconds. One had sold arsenic and another recommended it for killing rats but, Adam informed Chauvette, arsenic, as Adam was certain the detective knew, took a few days to kill someone and they died horribly. It had to be cyanide—history would bear him out.

"I agree with you. And what did you find when you went with Louie Montserrat?"

"You know him? Pretty Louie?"

"Of course. I know he receives a 'finder's fee' so to speak, for taking people to Mama Zee's, that old charlatan. Did she read your future for you?"

"No, but she told me what I needed to know by dealing cards."

"Yes. And you, of course, believed her—that she could divine your secret thoughts."

"No. Despite my faults—and I have many—I'm not that easily duped by claims of otherworldly abilities. But I did find out a white man had been there before me—the man I think is Miss Baudelaire's killer—and what he bought, Mama Zee also sold to me. Cost all I had on me."

"Why don't we see what you purchased. That is, if you have nothing to hide."

Adam takes a long drink and then pulls the two packets out of his pocket and places them before Chauvette. He also shrugs off his jacket and rolls up his shirtsleeves after removing the cufflinks and dropping them in his shirt pocket. Adam doesn't care that he's now inappropriately dressed in the middle of the day; it is too damn hot and his head is now throbbing. He holds the glass with the rapidly-melting ice against his right temple.

Chauvette takes the larger of the two packets and pulling the string off, unwraps the paper. He reveals a doll. It could have been representative of a man or a woman—it only lacked details to indicate the gender. Chauvette looks about quickly while he rewraps it.

"Why the secrecy?" Adam asked. "I'd think everyone in New Orleans would know what that is."

"That's why I'm rewrapping it—they do know."

"Revolting things, aren't they?" Adam doesn't care anymore—he has had enough and just wants to go lie down in a darkened room.

Chauvette carefully opens the flat packet. Inside is a powder. Chauvette delicately sniffs it; he doesn't want to breath any of it into his nostrils as he is sure it is a poison. "I am certain this is the type of poison that killed Miss Baudelaire. Strange that you would know about it and here you have more of it in your possession. What were you going to do with it?"

"Use it to clear myself."

"That's an odd way to do it, by possessing the very evidence we are looking to find on the killer. It seems as if you may as well confess."

Adam scrutinizes Chauvette—deciding the detective isn't serious. "The only thing I have to confess is that I've found where the doll was purchased and the substance that killed her and they were both purchased from the same place by a man who was there earlier."

Chauvette smiles. "I am tempted to arrest you on the spot, Mr. Cartwright, if for nothing else but your arrogance. Do you take the New Orleans police force for a confederacy of fools?"

"No, but I feel I have to prove my innocence. You don't seem interested in doing it—just in proving I'm guilty. I happen to be the only one who has my interests at heart."

"I am trying to find the killer and if that killer is not you—then you will be proven innocence by the mere fact of that discovery. I am taking possession of these items." Chauvette placed both packets in his jacket pocket. "Go back to the Maison Dupuy and don't leave it again today."

"First, I'm not under arrest…"

"Yet," Chauvette adds.

Chauvette's superciliousness makes Adam clench his fist; how he wishes he could physically take down the detective with a punch to the jaw.

"I plan on seeing Edwin perform tonight. He wants to…" Adam stops himself. He can't understand why he keeps revealing information to Chauvette. Adam reminds himself to not be so forthcoming and realizes he has much to learn yet about restraint and self-discipline.

"He wants to what?" Chauvette cocks an eyebrow.

Although Adam wishes he'd kept his mouth shut, it's too late. "He wants this to be the last performance for a time. I've invited him back to the Ponderosa for a…respite. He's just waiting for me to be able to leave and then his engagement here will end."

"Interesting. That I didn't know—thank you. All right, Mr. Cartwright, you may go to the theater tonight but nowhere else—understand? Or I will be forced to lock you up." Chauvette raises a finger and shakes it for emphasis. Adam is reminded of being chastised as a child and the old feelings of resentment he felt as a boy, rise again.

Adam stands and folds his jacket over one arm and picks up his hat; his head aches too much to wear it. "I understand." He nods to Chauvette and as he walks away, he nods at the policeman watching near the café. And Adam is certain another detective, one he hasn't yet spotted, is following him, and he knows, once he reaches the hotel, another plainclothes New Orleans policeman will be waiting in the lobby to keep tabs on him. He has been watched this whole time and he grossly underestimated Chauvette. And Adam is humiliated; he should have known better. He should have known. _Ass_ , he calls himself— _goddamn jackass_.


	6. Chapter 6

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 **The Denouement**

When he wakes, the sun is either setting or rising. Adam sits up; he feels drugged but it's because he hadn't slept the previous night. He's disoriented at first, turns on the gas lamp on the wall and looks at his pocket watch—7:34. Is it night or the morning of the next day? His head feels heavy but his headache is gone.

He sits for a few moments as it all comes back to him—Pretty Louie, Mama Zee and Chauvette-Detective Chauvette, his nemesis.

The performance! Adam remembers that he had promised Edwin he would attend, at least the last act and that hopefully tonight, over dinner and with Adam's advice, Edwin could hammer out his plans to visit the Ponderosa.

 _"Shouldn't you ask Penn to join us for dinner? I mean he is your manager and he didn't seem too happy about your leaving. He's right in that it would cause hardship for a great many people."_

"No, Irving would stonewall any plans. He believes I should make as much money as possible while I'm young and put some aside for myself, for my, if you will forgive the phrase, old age."

"That's not bad advice; you told me most of your money goes to support your family and you do have to consider yourself. Don't misunderstand me, Ned, I think some time on the Ponderosa, time spent outdoors, would do you a world of good. You could also make character studies. There's another rancher who is a western Falstaff!"

Edwin grins and cheers up. 'That is a fine idea. I could do some studies—observe personalities."

"Don't misunderstand me, Ned, but how will a hiatus affect your family? Will they be able to manage?"

"My savings would go to them—I have a bit and it would hold them over. And in his last letter, John said he's had enough of the country-he's striking out on his own. Even if he doesn't help out financially, it's one less person to support."

And that was where they left it.

After quickly washing, shaving and dressing, Adam took a hack to the theater. As before, an envelope enclosing a ticket had been left for him. It was for a private box and therefore, Adam disturbed no one as he took the stairs to the upper floor and found the box, separating the heavy curtains to take his seat. The theater was filled and Adam is surprised that he was given a box to himself but then Penn took care of those things.

Adam focused on the performance—he was late and had missed almost all of the first three acts. Juliet was arguing with her father over her marrying Paris and he has determined that she will marry him; now it's a matter of his paternal authority.

"I'll give you to my friend; and you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets, for, by my soul, I'll ne'er acknowledge thee, nor what is mine shall never do thee good. Trust to't. Bethink you. I'll not be foresworn!" The actor playing Capulet storms grandly off the stage, full of a father's rage against a perceived ungrateful daughter.

Lady Capulet, played by an obviously nervous understudy, also abandons her daughter: "Talk not to me, for I'll not speak a word. Do as thou wilt for I have done with thee." Then she flounces out and Juliet, in a fit of despair and self-pity has only her nurse to console her.

Polly isn't bad in the part, Adam thinks. Actually a better actress than Minerva but she doesn't have the lithe figure of a young girl or the voice, hers having matured and deepened. He can't watch anymore—he's too anxious and restless, courtesy of Chauvette. He picks up his hat from the seat beside him where he had laid it and goes out. He'll wait for Ned in his dressing room.

Penn is there, sitting at Edwin's dressing table and he is tinkering with something; Adam can't quite see what it is.

"Irving?" Adam doesn't want to intrude as Penn seems immersed in his task.

Penn spins around, stands up and places himself in front of the table, blocking what is on it. "What are you doing here already? Is the play over early? Did something happen?"

"No, but I wasn't in the mood…" His pulse starts pounding—he can almost hear it in his ears and his headache threatens to return. Adam peers around Penn and sees a crudely-made doll, one just like the one he had bought from Mama Zee. "What the hell…"

Penn glances back at the table and Adam enters the room.

"I found it on Ned's table," Penn says, stepping away. "I think someone is trying to scare him—make him think he's going to die next; I was taking it apart so that he...you know how superstitious these theater people are…"

Focused solely on the doll, Adam picks it up. It is supposed to be a man—unlike the one that Minerva had received but there is something odd about it. The hair is black, shiny like a raven's feathers. And hemp twine is wound in a hangman's noose and looped about the figure's neck. Adam realizes that the figure more closely resembles him than it did Edwin—Edwin would be wearing something identifiable.

"This isn't Edwin," Adam says and turns in time to see Irving Penn raise his heavy silver-tipped cane. He brings it down sharply and heavily putting all his weight behind it and Adam Cartwright drops like a poleaxed steer.

"You shouldn't have meddled, Adam. You shouldn't have but you have and now…well, you ruined everything. I had it all planned out. All of it!"

Penn's voice reaches Adam almost as if he is listening from the bottom of a lake or beneath layers of blankets; Adam understands, and wants to respond, to stand up and wrench the cane away from Penn and strike him. Adam makes a slight attempt to rise but the cane comes down again and pain shoots through his head and down his neck. He tries to stay conscious but darkness is pressing down on him—and the darkness wins.

~ 0 ~

His shoulders ache and it takes effort to open his eyes. Once Adam does, he realizes he can't see much, just a small line of light under a door. Adam realizes he is lying on the floor on his stomach and that his arms are bound behind his back—that's why his shoulders radiate pain. His mouth is stuffed with fabric and he is gagged. He makes an effort to stand up but his feet are bound at the ankles. He knows he can get up, just sit back on his ankles and then, once he has his feet under him, push back against the wall and stand. He decides he'll do it and then hop like a fool to the door. Once there he decides he'll turn around and try to manipulate the door knob and open it. If it's locked, well, he'll lie back down and kick at it. Either he will eventually break through a panel or be heard—he believes. But the room is narrow.

He's no longer in Edwin's dressing room. It seems to him that he's in some sort of closet or storage room. It smells of sweat and sour perfume and beside him are stacks of what are probably costumes.

Although Adam strains to listen, he can't hear anything and he has no idea what time it is. He was….what was he doing? Ah, yes, Penn. He was watching Penn at work, making a voodoo doll of him—not Edwin. Penn wants him dead. Why? And did Penn kill Miranda as well? If so, why? Why would Penn want Minerva dead? Was he in collusion with Polly? Was Polly going to give Penn a cut of her new salary, a greater salary than before now that she was a co-star again? Again her name would be second only to Booth on the marquee, on the playbills plastered throughout the city. And, Adam remembers, the house had been packed. People had apparently flocked to the theater now that a murder had occurred.

Perhaps, Penn had hoped for that and that was why he had killed Minerva. A theater where actors and actresses had been killed, had been viciously murdered or died in some unexplainable accident, would earn a notoriety that was an automatic draw. People love the supernatural, the occult and want to believe that spirits from beyond still walk among us remaining in their natural milieu. A ghost light wasn't kept on backstage the whole night for any other reason but so any that haunting spirit can see his or her way about the theater.

"He killed for love." Mama Zee had said that. Did Penn love Minerva? No, no. Edwin had said that Penn was in love with him—a bit. Perhaps Penn loved him more than a bit. Perhaps Edwin was his passion and Edwin loved Minerva. Was that why she had to die?

Seems a bit much, Adam thinks, as far as motivation. But obviously Penn wants him out of the situation, was planning to kill him. Was Penn going to somehow slip him cyanide?

Adam tries to ease the intense pain in his shoulders but can't. Whatever was used to bind him has long ends. His scarf. Penn must have tied him up with his scarf and more than likely, Edwin's as well. So Adam struggles with his positioning. He finally manages to turn himself around and makes an effort to push himself up by pressing against the back wall but there are clothes hanging on a rack and he feels suffocated by the heavy fabrics that fall about him. He drops back to the floor trying to calm his breathing. His efforts have made him breathless but his mouth is blocked and he can't seem to take in enough air. What air is available is thick with odors, it's hot and he is miserable. But at least his feet are toward the door so he slides closer to the door and having to lean back, kicks out and strikes the door unsatisfactorily. He moves closer and kicks out again but it takes all his breath and he has to stop and slowly refill his lungs. He's about to kick out again when the door opens and a dark figure stands in the doorway, the light coming from behind him.

Adam considers that perhaps it hadn't been such a good idea after all. Is Penn going to shoot him? Strangle him with a scarf from wardrobe or bash in his brains with his sliver-topped cane? Then he hears a familiar voice.

"So this is where you are, Mr. Cartwright," Detective Chauvette states.

~ 0 ~

Chauvette unties Adam and as the blood quickly flows back into his wrists and feet, they seem to hurt and throb. He chafes his wrists and rolls his shoulders

"Any idea how long I've been in there?" Now that his shoulder discomfort is easing up, Adam feels a deep, throbbing ache in his head.

"Long enough for the blood to dry. Looks like a gash or…there's quite a bit of blood matting your hair."

Adam gingerly touches his head. "It was Irving Penn who took me down with his walking stick—hit me quite a few times. I walked in one him and he was making…" Adam wanted to reveal all he had seen, that Penn was taking advantage of the circumstances of Minerva's death in order to be rid of him.

"We know, Mr. Cartwright. And now we know whose blood was on the stick."

"Oh." Adam feels foolish; of course, Adam thinks, since Chauvette had found him, had been searching for him, he must know about Penn by now. "I'm surprised you were looking for me."

"My number one suspect? Of course I would want to know where you were. My man didn't expect you to leave so soon, right in the middle of the best part, was how he put it. I think he's put-out; he had to leave the play to search for you. And then, when he couldn't find you, when no one could find you, well, I was sure you'd given us the slip. I was just about to send a man to the train depot and more to the docks when Penn confessed."

"He confessed?"

"Isn't that what I just said, Mr. Cartwright?"

"You know, you're an arrogant son-of-a-bitch, Chauvette."

"Yes, I know. And you, Mr. Cartwright, are innocent of murder although I think you have the capability. But you take pride in your self-control because you have come so close to giving in to your basic instincts before, haven't you? And that is your fear, isn't it—the fear of a highly intelligent and educated man-that you'll abandon self-control altogether and become a beast like every other man."

Adam considered. "You may be right, Chauvette, but then I don't think I could commit murder. Obviously, you aren't of the same opinion." And Adam was sure of himself—or so he thought but in the back of his brain, in his atavistic roots, he felt that a snarling beast was waiting, a murderous throwback to his predecessors.

Adam wanted the conversation away from him. "What did Penn say? Did he say why he killed Minerva? Why he wanted to kill me?"

"Minerva—Minnie Bodine, according to our doctor, was with child, supposedly Edwin's—who really knows? Penn told us she said it was Booth's and she also claims he gave her a venereal disease. She threatened to go public, tell the newspapers unless Booth married her. Penn couldn't allow it and decided to make her death seem…well, we are in New Orleans. What better than death by voodoo.

"As for you, Mr. Cartwright, Booth said that he was going to leave the production to return to Nevada with you—without Penn. Apparently, from what Penn said as he broke down, he was jealous of your friendship with Booth, hated your intimacy, felt that you came between the two of them." Chauvette shrugs. "Takes all types of people, doesn't it? And theater people are the worst of all—always taking on different roles. I think it's because they're unhappy with their own lives, who they are. But my opinion counts for nothing. Shall we go?"

Adam steps out and realizes that he was locked at the end of a long corridor; he was fortunate to be heard.

"How did Penn kill Minerva? It was by poison, wasn't it?"

"Yes. He said he put it in champagne and they toasted her upcoming nuptials—at least that's what she thought. Poor fool."

"Poor fool? Is that actually sympathy from you, Detective?"

Chauvette shrugs his shoulders. "I always have sympathy for fools."

"Really? Did Penn say how he was going to kill me?"

"He said something about paying someone to dump you alive into Lake Pontchartrain. The alligators would make a meal of you very quickly and if not, well, after you drowned, it's dubious your body would be found in time to be identified—if found at all."

And Adam would swear that Chauvette almost laughed at the thought.

The two men silently walk to the dressing rooms and Adam sees Penn. The man sits in a chair in the hall, a policeman on either side of him, his hands in cuffs hanging between his legs. He doesn't focus on anyone or anything, just seems to be mumbling to himself and Adam hears him say, "I did it for you, Ned….for you. All of it."

He did it for love, Adam thinks. Just as Mama Zee had said—the man did it for love.

"Can I leave New Orleans tomorrow?" Adam asks Chauvette.

"Yes, but don't you want to stay longer in our fair city?"

"I can't put enough miles between me and this place and the sooner I start, the better."

And at that, Chauvette did laugh.

~ Finis ~


End file.
